


Notes to a Melody

by BonJiro



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask, The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time, The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker
Genre: Drabble Collection, Emotional, Episodic Chapters, Focus on the main characters, Gen, Mostly OoT centric, Multi, No Smut, light shipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 10:55:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 33,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4519173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonJiro/pseuds/BonJiro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabblish shorts of the Zeldaverse. Episodic, 3000 word limit. Characters may vary, but mostly mains. In summary; 'All aboard the feels train'. Slightly Slice of Life, no overarching plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Them

_Malon had often wondered of her Husband’s penchant for sky watching._

The breeze was a soft whisper across the plains of Hyrule field at night, bringing with it a sense of calm that would see most content to settle in the warmth of their beds, at ease. Many nights, when she was young, she would stand below the stars and serenade them. Malon had grown so used to the feel of the night’s embrace, and thought nothing of wandering from the house in the wee hours of the morn, comforting as it had become to her.

It seemed strange then, that her husband seemed to scan the stars with paranoia, instead.

The warmed fabric of her dressing gown was soft against her hands, pocketed, as she watched him from the gate of the corral. He stood in the center of it, not inches off the spot that she used to, and idly, the woman wondered if the grass held a memory of their footprints. He’d not moved in over an hour, just the same as every time, head craned upward to peer through blonde bangs. All was silent, not even a chirping of crickets to be heard, and if one did not look for him they likely would not notice him at all.

There was an ethereal quality to it that mesmerized her, though she knew the man she’d married was a marvel of his own, out of place in the world and yet, able to call anywhere home. It made her hesitant to disturb him, something she wrestled with most nights, but this moon she had finally decided to ask the question that plagued every time she awoke alone, only to spy him from the window, staring at the skies.

“Link…” she called softly, her fragile jaw line tilting up as if his name were a kiss to be blown. “…Aren’t you cold out here? …You got to be up early for the milk run, too…”

At first, there was no reply, as if he hadn’t heard her at all, but as a nervous hand swept auburn fringe from her view, Malon saw his pointed ears perk up. He blinked once, as if snapping from some distant reverie, and with a slow motion turned his blue gaze upon her. A foreign stare echoed out between them, as if the man did not recognize her, but before she could question it, it was gone and replaced by the familiar smile of a loving husband.

“Oh… No, it’s nice out tonight.” He offered quietly, as if any level of volume may shatter the tranquil scene. The camber of moonlight caught a twinkle in his eye, something fond, yet distant. “What are you doing up?”

Though Malon’s eyes scanned his handsome features for signs of sleep, she found only the boyish energy that the man seemed to carry everywhere with him, and with a small giggle and a shake of her head she found her feet moving toward him, like a moth to flame.

She smiled at him, unable to do anything else. “I was hoping to ask you the same.” She whispered, pupils widened by the dark, flickering to trace his silhouette. Slender fingers found their place upon his shoulder, and when Link’s attention turned heavenward again, Malon couldn’t help but follow.

“…I was just thinking of… a girl I once knew.” he mused carefully, a soft and faraway glint in his eye, like a regretful memory. His face was calm, almost serene, but the ghost of sadness haunted it. “You remind me of her, everyday, when you smile… It makes me think of what her life might have been like if she hadn’t been taken.”

Malon blinked, trying to follow his line of thought. “…Taken by who?”

“Them.”

She glanced at him, her head lolling to rest on his shoulder over her head, the warmth of it comforting as always. Malon had always tried to understand him, the odd and at times, cryptic things he said… sometimes she wondered if it was only Link in there, for her husband seemed to hold many lives in memory. Still, she loved him all the same, even if it meant she would never fully understand him.

A slow sigh slipped from her husband’s lips, as Link seemed to shake his head, allowing only the tiniest movement. “I tried to stop it, I really did. There were just too many of them, and the lights were so… bright…”

Malon opened her mouth to speak, wanting to take away the look in his eye, hesitant as she stared up at his profile, dimly lit by the moon.

“Well, there you go… You tried. I’m sure she knows that, wherever she is…” she breathed, her eyes closing in a moment of respite, though her brow furrowed some. “…You always do the best you can, but sometimes, things just don’t work out like we want them to.”

“I didn’t keep my promise.” He whispered, so soft she scarcely heard him.

Unable to do more, she consoled him, a light kiss placed to his neck and gave a forgiving reply. “…One broken promise isn’t the end of the world, love.”

He fell silent then, even his breath stilled as he squinted upward with pathos, muscles tensing as her words hit home. Sensing that there was nothing more she could say, Malon slipped away from him, a tender squeeze to his shoulder given before turning back toward the house. Link stayed a moment more as his wife padded away, fixated upon the full and yellow moon above, high and small.

“…Yes, it was.”


	2. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was finally home, but he knew he couldn't stay long.

The soft lilt of a lullaby still swept the fringe of his mind, and as he stared at his estranged bed, the boy wondered how he ever used to manage sleeping so late. His younger days were filled with things he’d left behind here—oversleeping, loneliness, bullying and the odd, careless dream.

Younger days… and yet, seven years on, he was the same age as then. It was a strange notion to wrap ones mind around, this business of time travel, but in these small moments of coincidence he found his mind wander the thin lines of fantasy.

It was the closest to a real Kokiri Link would ever feel.  
With the ghost of a smile, he turned a crystal blue gaze to the rest of the small abode he’d once called home. The light of day, filtered by the forest canopy and holding the taste of oak on its scent, came spilling through the small square window above his childish bunk with a soft tone to illuminate the room. Mahogany grain coursed through every surface, the hard wood stump in the center of his house providing a humble table at which he would often eat—an empty clay bowl sat there still, stained aubergine and incarnadine from the berries it often held.

Tacked to the wall were dog-eared notes he’d made, scrawled with a hardly legible though uncomplicated lettering. Most documented achievements of some sort, penned with excitement and pride, though each seemed so very inconsequential now.

I lifted up a rock twice the size of what Remi did today, and now he’s spent the whole afternoon out the front of Mido’s place, trying to do better—underneath these words was a vague scribble of the event, once a masterpiece to the boy but now, only resembling the poorly formed stick figures dabbed with green they truly were.

Link paused, squinting closer, and a nostalgic laughter bubbled up from his chest. It was a tiny squeak of a sound, so used to the deeper boom of a man’s rumble he was, and it almost made his throat feel tight to produce. Blonde bangs wisped about his brow as the boy shook his head, turning from the sight with lighter footfalls than he was accustomed, heading toward the door.

Standing upon the small balcony, so unstable and poorly designed the moss covered plateau was, he marveled at how it had never once collapsed. The air was still, tranquil, and he allowed his gaze to sweep the entirety of this timeless domain, as unchanging as the children it housed. Not even a single leaf seemed out of place; Saria’s house still bore the hand painted lines, the orange pigment as fresh as the day he had helped her lay them, signed by their handprints.

Link’s brow furrowed a moment as his fingers twitched by his side, and slowly, he found his small hand rise to be inspected. His palm was soft and his calluses were gone, erased by the sweet lullaby. As his tiny digits flexed wide, he studied them in silence; his fingers were chubby, short and weak with a youthful grip. He knew well it would grow into the hand of a man again one day, able to wield a sword with strength and dexterity, climb mountain rocks and handle dangerous explosives. So different a pair of hands were they, and yet, one and the same.

He wondered idly if this hand would fit the shape he’d left upon the wood of Saria’s home, though for all his courage, he could not bring himself to find out.

A slow sigh passed his lips, blue eyes returning unfocused to the house of his dear childhood friend. She was inside, he knew, just the same as he had known her then and this time, never to become anything more. Saria would never once think he may rise before her, and soon she would come, padding softly from her doorway to wake him as she always did, a chipper smile on her face as called to him from the bottom of his ladder.

Link knew he could not risk lingering any longer.

Within the hour, the girl emerged, the verdant green of her hair bobbing with each step as she took to her daily ritual. Just as Link had known she would, she stood at the foot of his tree-forged house, a fond smile sent to the carving the boy had made in one of its roots, and called to him with a happy charm. She waited for him to stir, a thought spared to how lazy the boy could be, and lifted her voice to try again as her fairy flew overhead.

Soft soles climbed his ladder, and the chipper smile had already begun to fade. Not even the briefest glance was given to the room around her, missing the precious details the boy had been so careful to capture; she saw only the empty bed, cold and strangely, neatly made.

Her hand was unsteady when her fingers brushed the note upon his sheets, penned far neater than she’d seen before, yet undoubtedly his. She’d barely had the time to read it before the tears pricked her vision, blurring the words, though she knew they were inevitable.

“Saria, I’m leaving. But that’s okay, because we’ll be friends forever. Won’t we?”

And as she read the words she’d spoken herself when they’d parted in another life, Link paused upon the bridge where he’d heard them, the whisper of it breezing his mind. He turned to look back, a last glimpse over his shoulder, but before he could his feet were moving again, urging him ever onward as he stepped out alone.

There were some things the boy just couldn't bear to relive.


	3. Savage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even though he denied their prejudice, he couldn’t help but wonder what the silver cutlery was worth.

High brow and nasal, the many voices taking part in light dinner conversation would fill the large hall with ease, each guest speaking louder than necessary with an upturned nose and want for their drivel to be heard. No matter the subject, the noblemen and women of Hyrule seemed to think whatever they said was valuable, each sentence a masterpiece that could only be appreciated by—and indeed, were only meant for—pointed ears.

Not a one of them suspected their menial chatter was wasted upon the pair of distinctly rounded ears among them.

He had noted with distaste that over the course of his stay in this castle, the Hylian ‘high born'—elitist and shallow as they seemed to be—regarded him with only two apparent perceptions. Some addressed him like one would a brutish savage, with slower words and simple gestures, raining pity upon him for his own 'primitive’ culture and trying to educate him on things like etiquette and decency to the tune of their own 'civil’ society.

Others, thinly veiling their discomfort, obviously had no tolerance for allowing 'thieves and whores’ stay so close to riches and nobility, and often wondered what had possessed their King to invite them. They were dismissive and quick to point out flaws without the mercy of the previous, though it had been made clear that most everybody simply thought of the impending treaties like some sort of bad sale; buying a defective and exotic product one had no use for, simply for the fact it was cheap.

Golden eyes swept the large dining table, barely any of its redwood visible beneath the large platters and silver cutlery. Piles of food unnecessarily cover it, providing a banquet that would serve three times as many as the scant twelve gathered around the table. Already he could see that their scraps, cold with neglect as they talked, were of a quality and quantity to pass as middle class meals, sitting only to be wasted upon plates of precious metal too exquisite to be used.

He was the only one that had neglected to gather such heaps of meat and fruit onto his own, simply unable to do it as the fine filigree and pristine quality shone with a gentle wink to him. Such a treasure was to be displayed and taken care of, admired for its workmanship and the impeccable quality of the silver. It was perhaps fortunate for him that his appetite had waned in watching the others so ungratefully stuff themselves, utensils scraping the surfaces with careless abuse, their gluttony hidden quietly within stifled movements considered 'polite’.

A large woman with a nose to thin for her fat face cocked her head toward him, chins holding a disgusting sort of wobble as blue eyes silently took stock of his empty plate. “Lord Dragmire, I do hope you aren’t feeling ill. You’ve not touched a morsel… I had been under the impression good food was a scarcity in your desert, but with the way you act, I’d sooner believe you to be fasting!”

She laughed with a flimsy wave of her chubby hand, turning a knowing look to the others as the mirth chorused about the table, some sort of inside joke they clearly thought him too ignorant to realize.

The Gerudo’s sharp teeth took to abusing the inside of his cheek, preventing harsh words as his mouth avoided a sneer, swiftly converting it into a grimace and an evasive sort of hum. “…Yes, well… You’ll have to forgive me, but I’m not accustomed to such large meals at this hour. That aside, I’m still adjusting to your… tastes, Lady Grantham.” he uttered quietly, his rich timbre holding an accent that stuck out in such company like a sore thumb.

“Ah, yes, the spices…” ventured another man from further down, his drawn and wrinkled features projecting an age far greater than his voice would suggest. “I don’t suppose you people have such luxuries. It would be a shame to deprive yourself, given the circumstances of their price and rarity…” He leaned forward to catch the Gerudo’s eye, sending a pitying look that seemed almost smug as he took to a chalice of wine. “The fact that it has real flavour may make the meat a little strong, but once you’ve had a few bites, I’m confident you’ll appreciate it.”

Lady Grantham was quick to nod in agreement, her stiffly groomed brown hair not moving in the motion as it was held in place by ornamental clips. “Oh, dear me, I had almost forgotten about that… But he is right, of course, I know I certainly couldn’t bear to eat an unseasoned meals. How bland!” she held a fat hand to her swollen bosom as it threatened to spill from her dress, her eyes wide to emphasize her aversion to such a thing as her digits came to toy with a ruby necklace.

“And such a waste of good rabbit, to simply boil or roast it like that; you know they’re almost as rare as the spices, now.” Came another haughty voice into the mix. “It takes a mindful huntsman to track them nowadays. I remember when I was a child, the fields were full of them.”

He couldn’t hide the scowl that formed, disgusted with everything this evening had offered, and as his fingers drummed upon the wood he couldn’t help himself; golden eyes snapping to the fat woman.

“Has anyone ever thought to declare them protected until their numbers grew strong enough for the hunt again? I’m fairly confident a few years without rabbit wouldn’t kill you.” He growled, gruff as he gestured a large hand toward her stomach, specifically.

She stood immediately, a loud gasp attesting to how affronted she was as her jewelry rattled, though the wobble of her large frame only served to prove his point. The hand held to her chest again, she glared down her nose at him. “How dare you!”

The corners of his mouth twitched some, a sense of satisfaction tugging at them to form a smirk as he heard the scraping of another chair, one of the Lords cleaving to the woman in order to calm the situation. The table had fallen silent in the wake of one small comment, the fat woman ushered aside and fanning her face as if she may pass out, spouting her offense at the boorish thief’s insinuations to the consolation of the other.

 _Probably feeling lightheaded from standing so quickly; Gods know it takes a lot of energy to lift that much,_  he thought with some dark humour, watching her reactions from afar.

Tentatively, one of the slimmer of the nobles cleared his throat, sending a half lidded look of superiority down the table at the Gerudo King. “Have you ever  _eaten_  rabbit, Lord Dragmire?” he asked simply, a thin brow raised as every set of eyes turned to look at the savage among them.

Ganondorf’s eyes narrowed dangerously toward the man, and leaning back in his chair with a belligerent cock of his head, the Gerudo answered honestly. “No.”

A vindicated hum came from the other as he immediately seemed to dismiss the imposing thief, taking a silver fork to gather a few morsels upon it and hold them poised to be eaten as he inspected the meat. “Well, then… Perhaps you shouldn’t be so quick to punish others in jealousy.” Green eyes sent him a pointed glance, holding only scorn where before was feigned pity, popping the meat into his mouth in spite to chew it slowly.

It took only a moment to see the same sentiment reflected in all of their faces, a damning silence in the room now that the Gerudo had spoken here. “Though I suppose we should be grateful you’ve not developed a taste for them. Your women might well steal the last Hyrule’s rabbits, if you found them to your liking… But at the very least, you would not touch the spices.” Haughty laughter rang out once again, filling the room and showing clearly the double chins. “Plainly boiled is fit enough for a King where you hail from, isn’t it?”

A grand joke it was, precious rabbit wasted upon a savage.

A twitch of unbridled rage flew through his veins, hatred doubling instantaneously for the pompous and supercilious people gathered around him; though they would not see the dangers it was forging just yet. Every insult he’d bottled up, all the contempt he’d received, would be returned to them in good time, he knew, but still he could not linger here any longer to endure. A painful scrape of his chair signaled his departure, his silence squashed under their chatter as the Hylian Elite resumed their meals, ignoring the heavy sound of boots or the temper fuelled slamming of a door to continue light jests at his expense.

The silverware that lined the seat he had filled would remain untouched, unsullied, until the servants took them back in hand to be put away. With the Gerudo about, it was sure to see twice the security it usually would have, though this effort was in vain. All the treasures of this place, whatever remained of their rabbits in the field, and even the cutlery were already as good as his.

No one would be laughing then, but him.


	4. Saddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Link had never been good at fastening them.

An impatient whinny sounded behind him, and pointed ears twitched nervously to the sound.

“I’m trying, girl, give me a minute…”

Crouching within the short grass, miles out into the vast wilderness of the Hyrulian plains, steel blue eyes inspected the damage from under furrowed brows. Calloused fingers held the cantle of her saddle in one hand, and suddenly grateful for the dexterity lent to him by the fingerless leather gloves, the boy once again took to the rusted latching with hopes of salvaging it. The longer he had tried, the lower into the grass he’d sunk, until now, he finally found himself sitting in the midst of a conundrum—in fact, he hadn’t moved far from where he’d first fallen when the girth had given way.

The bruise was forming far more quickly than any successful ideas.

A frustrated sigh came, and leaning the weight of it against his knee, both hands began their struggle again. He had tried a number of things now. At first, Link had thought to tie the straps in place about Epona’s barrel, though for that effort, he had found only that the leather wouldn’t hold its knots tightly and that the mare was very nearly capable of rolling her eyes. Next, after a few minutes of brainstorming, the clever boy had seen to his own belt in sacrifice, only to lament for the first time his lithe—and almost skinny—frame; Epona was, to put it politely, a ‘thick madame’. Not willing to let the idea pass easily, a quick mangling of the belt buckle entertained the thought of a replacement, though the fit was tight and easier said than done.

In trying to remove the rusted and broken buckle, straining as he pulled in vain to tear the last of it away, his hand slipped to be cut across the knuckles. In a fit of pique, the boy threw his arms up and knocked the saddle away with a damning word he didn’t utter often, bringing the abused fingers up to his mouth with a scowl. The metallic tang coated his tongue, and blood drawn, it was clear the saddle had bested him once again.

An amused snort came of his sorrel companion as her eyes followed the rock of the discarded seat, and with a flick of her mane—seemingly as finished with the idea of repair as Link was—she set about grazing nonchalantly.

The boy turned his head to look, blonde bangs feathering atop a sulking frown as his blue gaze tracked the mare over his shoulder. Epona was, quite obviously, not bothered by this turn of events; she held no qualms, it seemed, with his riding without a saddle at all. In fact, if Link were to be honest with himself, he might even have guessed that his fiery friend thought him foolish for placing so much effort into fixing it. Still nursing stinging fingers within the comfort of his mouth, the boy found himself tracing the sleek lines of her form; strong, proud. She was a wild beauty as she had always been, and like so many other days, his mind burned with curiosity for how she came to live at the ranch.

Perhaps she had followed Malon home one summer evening, endeared by the sweetness of her singing voice as the mare wandered far from her mother. Malon’s own mother had passed, he recalled, so then Epona may simply have seen a kinship to be forged with the daughter of Talon… Link himself had no mother; had never known her. The strange trio, as odd as the thought was, seemed to be orphans in some respect—she even reminded him of a mother at times, a nurturing creature she was, if a bit testy. When he had been injured in the past, Epona would stay close, quick to alert him to any danger and protective to the point of charging other beasts. When he was tired, she would refuse to carry him onward, as if she knew her protests would halt him to make camp and rest.

She was many things, this horse of his, but he’d never known an animal like her—there was something raw, keen and sharp, within her brown eyes. She went as far as he dared to, without pause or hesitation, across vast deserts and through thick forests without rest. He knew well he had not tamed her, not truly… She was faithful as a friend, not for being owned, or trained.

Somewhere in him, Link almost found the saddle to be an insult to her, as if suggesting she could be harnessed; needed to be restrained in some way in order to comply.

Removing his battered digits from his lips, the boy cast the lump of leather an accusatory glare, a leg kicked out at it for good measure after the trouble it’d caused. Taking his belt in hand he stood, brushing grass blades from the back of his tunic and turning an apologetic look to the sorrel mare.

“Well… I guess that’s that, girl.” he called with a small sigh, though some relief peppered his tone. “Can’t be helped, and we have to be getting on to Castle Town before sundown.”

She glanced up at him from her patch, her expression ghosting sarcasm; it was the horse’s equivalent of 'I told you so’, though with a whip of her tail it softened. She was never one to rub it in when she was right—Link appreciated how forgiving she could be when the mood struck her.

He flashed her a cheeky sort of grin, lopsided and handsome, as his belt was guided through loops to be fastened once again. “I know, I know…” he chuckled, sidling up to her and patting the thick white of her mane. He drew close to her ear to whisper, causing it to twitch with suspicion.

“Listen… Let’s just keep this whole thing between us. You know Malon would never let me live it down…” came the whisper, a little more desperate than he’d like. “There’ll be a carrot in it for you. Freshest, biggest, juiciest in the markets. Promise.”

After a stubborn moment, as the mare was not usually one to accept a bribe, he felt her lean ever so slightly toward him—her way of agreeing, he knew, and his grin doubled. He took an arm to hook about her, a small jump required before Link could get his leg over, but Epona was steady to accommodate him. A final glance was sent in the direction of the abandoned saddle, though the sharp neigh he received was warning enough to forget about it as the mare took off into a spirited gallop. She had decided to waste no more time, it seemed, now that a carrot was involved.

As the wind caught his hair, Link twisted fingers into her mane fondly, and realised that although the sensation may have been a little rough, it was as natural and wild as she was at heart. She was one of a kind, born of these plains, and cared not for whether she wore a saddle…

Epona would carry him to the ends of the Earth, regardless, simply because she cared enough to do so.


	5. Calender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Princess kept her day’s well marked, but only in ink.

Zelda remembered things by dates, penned in neat script within orderly boxes upon her calendar, crisp and clean and tacked to the wall of her study for daily inspection.

It was an odd thing, this ritual of hers, but not a single event was missed by her eyes—she’d present smiles on birthdays alongside pleasant gifts, and keepsakes for remembrance whenever some sort of anniversary fell. No matter when it came, or how little warning, the Princess could place dates to happenings with an uncanny speed; never caught unaware of them.

Beautiful writing spoke well of an educated hand, tender and delicate as titles were put to days, numbered and organised with precision and planning. When she learnt of new things to document, she did so; pulling a velvet lined chair from an oaken desk and dipping quill in ink to record it. It may have seemed eccentric to some, were they aware of her obsessive habit, but she herself might describe it as a simple catalogue of circumstance—something to look back upon each year, like a ledger or a diary, slowly filling each box as the years passed by until there wouldn’t be a single day left unnamed.

But, there was one event she could not pair to any day of the year, and after an age of it plaguing her, she was not going to let the box remain unfilled any longer.

Satin gloved hands were folded upon her lap as she watched the young man poke about the study with an endearingly childlike curiosity. The verdant green of his tunic was a stark contrast to the white of her stone walls, and even her own peach toned attire, looking out of place as far from the forest as he was. A soft smile warmed her pale face, and with an idle tilt to her head she addressed him kindly.

“Link… I know this may seem a little offhand, but on what day were you born?”

Interrupted from his explorations, the boy ceased his rummaging to look up at her, half way through the motion of flipping through pages with no intent to read them. His handsome features suited the bemusement upon them, blue eyes wide to tell he’d not expected such a question. A blink turned to furrowed brows, and an upward glance in thought, fingers taking to an idle drum against leather bound covers.

“…Oh… Well… It’s…” he stammered some, and it was almost painfully obvious he was trying to concoct a white lie for her sake. “…The end of Mashen… Uh, seventeenth. Yes.” It was quick and evasive, if not a trifle nervous, as he nodded quickly and pretended to be once again enthralled with the tome.

Zelda forgave him instantly for such a weak willed answer with a small slip of laughter, though a quizzical look soon made it clear her prodding would continue. “The seventeenth would be much more in the  _middle_  of Mashen, though, would it not?” She saw him squirm some under her crystalline gaze, and her look softened. “…You don’t recall your birthday. Link, that’s alright, I quite understand, given the circumstances of your unique upbringing. I was only asking; don’t fret for it.”

A hand came quickly to ruffle his own floppy cap, something bashful about him now that she’d seen through it like glass. His eyes avoided hers a moment, the corner of his mouth ticking with thought, though Link was quick apologise. “…Sorry. I just didn’t want to disappoint you…” he shrugged some, an old ache rising for the oddity he knew he was as he peered up through blonde bangs. “Why such a sudden interest in it?”

Zelda was truthful, though casual in her explanation. She offered him a curt nod as she turned some, taking up the feathered quill to continue her previous task. “Well, it is hardly sudden… I’ve just not had the opportunity to ask, or thought to do so, though I was curious.” A swift dip into the inkwell saw her take with that pristine cursive to the date he’d suggested, marking it as his. “I just wanted to make a note of it… Never mind, though, I’ll just set you for the seventeenth from now on.”

But it was far too late, now, for Link’s interest was well and truly caught. Stretching his neck to full length, he tried to peer past her, eyeing the strange document with a small frown and a conspiratorial twitch to his ears. “Make a note… of it?” he pried, squinting some. “On what?”

She perked up with a questioning hum, as if she’d not heard him at first. After a moment, she seemed torn between her calendar and the Hero, her expression seeming to find nothing amiss with her obsession. “Oh, nothing… Just a personal calendar I keep. I jot down a few important things here and there… So that I don’t forget, of course.” she flashed him a fleeting smile, suddenly keen to make it appear less important than it truly was to her.

The Princess almost flinched when the boy rose to his feet, soft soled boots quiet against the stone and carpet as he came to stand at her side, setting the book he held down upon her desk. He leaned over it, blocking her access though she made to shoo him, and after only the briefest scan took the flimsy thing in hand to turn and inspect it himself. Though she twisted in her seat, holding a hand up as if silently begging him not to, Zelda reluctantly held her tongue to simply watch him; forlorn.

Calloused fingers held it high in front of his face, sharp blue eyes scouring the thing in a tense silence; as the pages flipped, he saw months pass by and with them, many notes. He read them to himself, tracing it back mentally as he mouthed the words, each date a footstep retraced through the sands of time—when finally he found what he’d searched for, Link’s stomach twisted painfully; baffled as to how she could possibly have summarised the harrowing ordeal into three mere words.

“…The Great Cataclysm.”

He felt his jaw clench when he read them, something cold forged within him bubbling to the surface at such a thing as every memory raced across his mind’s eye like a plague. Her eyes were upon him; he could feel them tracing every muscle. No louder than a whisper, he asked her with a cold voice he could barely claim as his own.

“…Why is this in here, Zelda?”

With something akin to defeat, she sighed, closing her eyes and lowering her head. “I just… wanted to remember, I suppose.” she offered quietly, sombre and matter of fact.

The Hero turned to her then, a distant anger in his eyes though his handsome features were stoic. A tense moment passed between them before he shifted slowly, taking hands to unfasten his belt. He saw her glace up, caught by the movement, only to look away with the faintest hint of a blush—satin gloved hands rose again to persuade him against what he did, though Link continued without heed, tugging the green tunic over his head to reveal toned muscle littered with scars.

He called to her, catching one of her wrists to draw her gaze, and unable to articulate any better than the action, pressed the gloved hand to a streak of mottled skin across his ribs.

“Twenty eight days after leaving the Temple of time. Struck by Volvagia’s tail; never turn your back on an enemy.” he uttered plainly, devoid of emotion and just as quick as she could name a birthday in her court. He shifted her hand again, moving onto the next; “Thirteen days after. Caught by the tip of a spear in the lost woods; you’re not safe even in your own home.”

Zelda shuddered some, shaking her head and simply unable to look at him as her lips tried to move, though his voice cut through her as yet another marking was pointed out. “Seventy two days. Slashed by Nabooru while she was brainwashed; even your friends can be turned against you.”

So many there were, and he could name them all; falling rocks from the collapsing tower, captured by Gerudo guards, the bite of a rotting corpse risen.

For every scar, he could pair an event, each with a date and a lesson he could recall and name faster than she could absorb them. He was too quick in his listing; Zelda knew he needn’t even think to do so, each mark holding a memory far more potent than ink upon a calendar. Upon his very flesh was inscribed his history, meaningful beyond words written or spoken, and for an eternity it seemed to go on until the boy halted mid sentence, seeing unshed tears prickle her lashes.

He fell silent then, strong grip fading from her wrist as he released it, not another word spoken between them as he turned to retrieve his tunic and let her tears fall in peace. He admired her for not crying, though for the moment, Link simply couldn’t face the insult his old friend had contrived with naught but three simple words for their past.

As the Princess hid her face from him with a sharp stab of guilt, she heard his footfalls pause, his voice soft and sorry from where it lilted in the doorway.

“Zelda may have her calendar for birthdays and the like… But Shiek has just as many scars that are his to be remembered, and no amount of ink will ever do them justice.”

And then, she really did cry, though as her left her, Link new she understood.


	6. Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shade of them fascinated, and occasionally, scared her.

His eyes were so beautiful, even set against his rough features. Striking; strong and proud, shining gold like the sands of their home whipped up against the sunset. They were the eyes of a leader, and she—like so many sisters—loved them.

It was all too easy for Nabooru to find distraction by them, as her King sat aloof from her, half hunched over a distinctly worn desk of oaken and bold Hylian design. She knew the odd furnishing all to well, privy as it was to her glaring scrutiny, heavily set in the most outward room of his chambers to impose upon any called here with a sense of foreign intrusion. One would think a gift of goodwill would have claimed a more favourable condition over the battered old chunk of wood received, but as the nobles often claimed, its value was its heritage.

Unfortunately, the odd desk was also the substitute for her gaze whenever her King noticed the habit she had of staring whilst he busied himself.

Downward and to the side, his Second’s attention would feign clipping to the awkwardly carved corner of it, sometimes accompanied with an evasive and distracted hum and, on the hottest days, a blush burning slightly to warm to hide in such weather for being caught. Used to attention as any King may be, he allowed her these strange and slimly hidden perusals with indifference, never finding any cause for concern, and Nabooru was silently grateful for this clemency.

But this day, her slender ankle bouncing nonchalantly upon her knee as the woman reclined in wait of a call to service or counsel, his indifference turned to a swift and painful awareness. A sweat slicked quill fell limply within his large grip, only a single drop of ink misplaced as it dripped upon the map beneath, and a reticent glance—but only a glance!—was sent her way to briefly trace her outline.

Struck helplessly off-guard by it the woman stilled, the idle bounce retracting sharply to see her soft sole upon stone, and hitched exhale met the golden charm she so often stalked. The harsh sun outside of his windows, the murderous slits lining their fortified home, filtered through with a gentle flutter to reach his irises and shimmer there keenly. They were more luminous than a cavern of treasure lit up by a tentative and hopeful thief’s lamplight, piercing and sharp like a wildcat in the night, assured and cool despite the flaming colour.

Indulging in them, taken aback for so easily acquiring her addictive quarry this day, she scarcely remembered herself before him. Blinking, a tiny shake of her head betrayed her, thin brows arched in surprise and question.

“Sire? Am I bothering you?”

He shifted then, pulling posture back to fill his chair properly, and setting the quill within the well let powerful hands reunite on the banal desk before him. Ganondorf allowed himself to hold eye contact with her, watching curiously as the woman held back numerous ticks, and pensive tilted his head some.

“No, Nabooru, I wouldn’t have you sitting in on me like this if it bothered me.” he offered with the hint of a smirk, amusement mingled upon a squint the stole her prize from her briefly. “That said, however, you’ve been rather silent of late. I had begun to wonder if  _I_ was upsetting  _you_.” The corners of his mouth lifted to chuckle, a hand gestured to the map between them. “I know you don’t much favour these… new affairs of mine.”

Even the beautiful gaze was not enough to stay the grimace that took her lips at that, a roll of her own eyes hidden as she took to the long ponytail over shoulder, bringing it forward to groom distractedly.

“As I’ve said before… I simply don’t see why you’re whiling away precious time with Hylian lore rather than addressing certain matters while you have their King’s attention.” she muttered ruefully, recalling the last argument they’d had—Nabooru never dared look him in the eye while his rage flared, for fear it would ruin their lustre.

A strained sigh came rumbling from his throat as his large frame seemed to slump some in disappointment, the hint of annoyance darkening his features into a patient frown. “You just wait. My studies will pay off, Nabooru, I promise you that. You may not see the sense in it now, but you will soon enough.” He saw her gaze sharpen and allowed his own to soften, “I was  _going_  to bring up several issues in our last meeting with them, but you know how skittish they can be about treaties.”

“Which issues?” she pried, brow rising conspiratorially.

“The silk trade, organised supply caravans and the possibility of an aqueduct, pending the Zoras’ approval.” he offered tiredly, rubbing his temple as a lazy blink dimmed his brilliant stare.

The woman bit her tongue, an almost habitual nag rising up in her throat, though the quiet and weary flicker of gold kept her voice at bay. Her fingers caught a knot in the long crimson tresses, and taking to it, Nabooru nodded with an approving hum. Almost carelessly, after a moment of silence, a small tangent escaped her anyway.

“Is that what you went to see them about last week? The Zoras, I mean… You know the scouts have actually reported the river receding some since then… I’d hate to think you had anything to do with that.” she mused jokingly, though her timing was poor.

Such an innocent thing, yet it received no reply, and instantly the question began to reverberate about the room as if a guitar string had snapped in the midst of a spirited tune. Carefully, almost hesitant, she found her gaze lifting away from her hair, searching as ever the shining gold of his own. But there, staring back, were a set she didn’t recognise at a glance—it was almost as if the light in them had died, replaced with a stark and lonely yellow, sickly like jaundice. His pupils dilated horribly, large and black blots to reduce the brilliant colour from only moments before, crisp and consuming like suns caught in an eclipse.

These were not the eyes she adored. They were as a stranger, peering down into the bottom of her as if checking a diamond for flaws, ready to throw it away at the slightest sign of clouding. So often, when he was close to her, Nabooru could see her own reflection in them; fixated, she could only stare, locked in a predatory glare by her King and seeing her face a pale streak in those arid eyes.

“…How strange.” came his bitter tone, deep and gravelled. “Perhaps I shall inquire as to their well being in your stead when I travel next.” Within Ganondorf’s mind, growing paranoid now with pending schemes, her watchfulness suddenly found and struck a nerve—his eyes darted to the map, crosses placed over three locations; forests, mountain, and of course, a freshly scribed one now marked the Zora’s domain.

If not for her habit, she’d never have caught it, but Nabooru’s attention drifted to follow his, watching helplessly as a large hand came to cover his scrawlings, sly. “I’ll not be joining you?” she asked quietly, almost absent as she noted the locations, her heart plummeting in her chest.

“No. There’s no need, and I would prefer you stay here, seeing as I don’t know how long this particular trip may last.” he finished bluntly, dismissive as he stared he down, quelling any protest.

It dawned on her then, like bile rising in her throat, that she did know this strange gaze though she often avoided admitting it.

Their arguments were always heated, a battle of wit and moral standing, desperations and frustrations clashing as the two leaders came about different solutions for the same goal. She tried and pleaded for diplomacies and talks of peace, soothing his desires to strong-arm and hurt. The louder he yelled, his booming voice crashing upon her like the brunt of a sandstorm, the darker his eyes became. The shimmer of pride became blind fury. The cool and aloof glances became sharp and frantic glares. She dared not look him in the eye when they fought, nobody did; though that did not mean she had not caught glimpses of hellfire burning in their place once or twice, when bailed up against the sandy stone of these walls.

With those dim flames staring her down so clearly, Nabooru could not deny the eyes she adored were also eyes she despised—she chose so many times to watch him and admire them, but when he truly looked at her in return, when she did not simply admire, the illusion began to fade.

But then, rare as it was, when talking amongst her sisters, one of them would swear she had seen that glint, a different side of him hidden just beyond his irises, and question Nabooru on her fondness for them. For years, as his Second in Command, she had seen it and pushed it aside, telling herself that it was just ambition or frustration, but deep down, she supposed she knew it was something else. Only now was it staring her in the face, unable to be ignored, though something in her gut told her it was too little too late for whatever it was the map seemed to point at.

Perhaps that was why, she pondered as she rose, padding softly to the door and away from the gaudy desk; that was why she and everyone else treasured those brilliant eyes when they shone with golden promise, the last vestiges of a happy boy prince…

For when they didn’t, they held something dangerous, and it frightened her.


	7. Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bond of sworn brothers was far stronger than the mountain rock.

As many a Hylian would tell you, the Gorons of Death mountain were, by any stretch, a rather peculiar lot.

Scholars thought them dull witted, and quite often strained their patience to hold civil conversations with the mountain faring tribe. Soldiers found them to be a belligerent and stubborn group, impossibly headstrong or else, simply too literal to talk tactics with. Hylian blacksmiths were well known for either bitterness against them for their fierce business rivalry, or reverent respect for the masters of masonry and ironwork. Even the judgemental nobles found the Gorons to be ‘good for a laugh’, and quite a few highbrow jokes and quips centred around their 'brothers’; confidence taken in the fact that no rock dweller would pick up on them as the vague insults they were.

To the Gorons, however, high up in their simple city of rock and carving at the summit, it was Hyliankind that seemed strange. The difference was, in true fashion to their humble and uncomplicated culture, such opinions went unvoiced. To speak ill of their brothers was a dishonour, and terribly rude, even if pointed ears were not privy to such things. Even so, despite hearing of their oddness as perceived by outsiders, the Gorons returned such speculation only with respect and goodwill…

Perhaps even, to their detriment.

As was customary now between the two races, every three years would be held a gathering to celebrate their alliance and encourage continued relations to go favourably. It was a grand political opportunity to gain some standing in the eyes of the other, based on hospitality, and offerings and gifts were commonplace.

But this year’s festivities seemed dimmed for the Goron’s patriarch, his dark eyes scanning the visitors to this proud city of his as they all lingered outside the entrance; the rocky vista painted by the setting sun in shades of red and orange. Usually, Darunia favoured his own turn to host these occasions, often the first to indulge in music and spirited dancing, but as he stood surreptitious to lean against the rock, he found he simply couldn’t bring his feet to move without the hot beat of the forest whistling around him.

Blunt fingers tapped idle against his bicep as yet another representative approached the square platform in the middle of it all, a basket of wines placed within the circle of rock with other offerings. He was thankful for the usual harshness of his face, barely able to hide the disappointed grimace that took it even as the beat of Goron drums filled the air to sway lanterns.

He wouldn’t say a word. No Goron would dare turn away a gift given, especially under such circumstance, but the simple fact was the gifts received this year were of poor selection. Gorons did not drink spirits, nor enjoy pot pourri. They could not eat the fine and exotic fruits, had no use for swords, regardless of their workmanship, and their culture passed information through generations by mouth, not book.

As the evening wore on, Darunia had all but lost faith in his 'sworn brothers’, their gifts a sure but simple sign that they did not care to think outside of their own ways and needs—a stark and foreboding reflection upon the political affairs to follow in years to come, surely.

Where normally the stubborn patriarch would feel anger in his belly, it worried him to find only a sad longing for bygone times, to the days before Ganondorf, when he and the Hyrulian King were still so mutually inclined… Mutually  _understood_.

A hefty sigh left him with a slump of his heavyset frame, a slight grinding of his back ridges upon the wall as he did so, and with a hint of defeat he turned toward the great door with disappointment.

From the edge of the crowd, struggling with a grunt and red cheeked from the journey, the padding of soft soled boots rang out as the guests fell strangely silent; an odd gasp and snicker here and there. He paid no attention to the others of his kind, this late arrival, and with some effort moved through them as they studied his peculiar cargo.

“Surely, that’s not his  _gift_?” whispered a woman in the back, surprise and mortification etched onto her features.

“Do you know that boy? I’ve never seen him before…” asked someone of the Goron beside him, though he received only a grin in response.

Stopped by curiosity, Darunia turned slowly, a bemused frown lasting only a second as a verdant green caught his gaze. No sooner did he catch the glimpse of him did the Patriarch’s foot tap, the ghosting melody he adored running through his head, ringing of the forest from which the boy hailed.

A crunching thud caused many to flinch as the burlap sack he carried was more or less heaved upon the offering platform, and with a relieved sigh and a cheeky grin, the lad took a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow, brushing blonde bangs aside. Blue eyes fixed upon his old friend, and the gold of his bracelets, so familiar, shimmered fondly back at the Goron chief.

“Sorry I’m late, Darunia. You have no idea how heavy things are for me now that I’m small again.”

The Goron’s stony expression cracked, and to the shock of the other guests, a barrelling laughter erupted from Darunia’s belly, jovial and loud. “Link, my Brother!” it was warm and fond, full of relief as bulky arms were held out to him in welcome. “It is good to see you have not forgotten us!”

The boy gave a pleased pat to the mysterious cargo he’d brought, as a furrowed brow stole his boyish features, though not enough to rid him of his smile as all eyes turned to him. “It’s not much… But it was the best I could find by myself.” he mused self consciously, ruffling his hat and perusing the assorted offerings, knowing well of their worth.

As the other Hylian representatives watched on, embarrassed and intrigued by this strange child’s appearance, the whispers were many fold. But when Link, to their great horror, reached into the sack and produced no more than common rocks, he received instead a happy cheer from the Goron’s gathered around. Confused glances were shared alongside questions and shock, but it was clear to the visitors that this boy had outdone them all when the lofty tribe members cleaved to him with smiles and friendly pats to the back, praising his thoughtful gift. It was decided, very quickly, that the lad was as peculiar as the Gorons, simply unable to understand the appeal of rocks over wines.

But when the large hand of Darunia came to clasp his small brother’s shoulder, his dark eyes shone brightly with renewed hope for the future.

“It’s the best gift I could ask for, Brother.” he chuckled, thankful. “Now play us that tune!”


	8. Poe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps the saddest spirits of all were those living to collect them.

The small and sparse chamber that was once a well stocked armoury seemed as bleak as the skies outside, a strange stink upon the stale air like sulphur and limestone, though the ashes of Death Mountain had not reached so far.

The door was a quiet creak behind as Sheik slipped in, a red eyed glance about the place curious though subdued as the cold of night was shrugged aside. It was an idle thought, but the warrior was thankful of the mask over his face, spreading warm breath about his neck and cheeks and belaying the fog that might’ve given him away in stealthy situations. There was no greeting to be made or any herald of his arrival, as Sheik watched the odd proprietor with something of a reluctant reticence, bandaged fingers twitching upon the glass of a miasma-filled bottle.

The strange man the Shiekah sought sat as ever on the stained sheets of a small bed, as unmoving from it as the iron lattice between the bedposts, as pasty limbs dangled over the side with an odd sway. A large hood obscured the Collector’s face, morbid wonder that it must have been underneath, to allow only the dim crimson glow of an eye, modelled on forgotten Kakariko lore and twisted into being through dark ritual.

Sheik was always silent as he felt the shivers up his spine, one for every visit to this spiritual menagerie, and already habit had set in as routinely as it could in this tumultuous world. The warrior would step forward with near undetectable footfalls, whispering closer, unable to know whether the Collector had noticed him as yet; hood down turned to watch the odd bug scuttle about a green mat. A moment taken to count the empty bottles by the bedside resulted in six this night over the usual three or four, and with a twitch of hidden ears, the warrior wondered of what sorrows were drowned. The Collector claimed so often to be a creature of chaos, one of few supporters to the anarchy under Ganondorf’s twisted designs, but when so many in Hyrule drank to make peace with their lot it seemed a mystery as to what could drive the Poe Collector to do the same, fond of trouble as he was.

Like clockwork, too, as the Sheikah drew near, the captured spirits would wander from the cages above on their shelf, as if gleeful of the living energy he brought. A sharp whack would strike the a cage, wood hitting wood as the collector’s cane sent the poes retreating back quickly, fearful of their master’s ire. Only then, as the warrior stopped before him, would the odd pair acknowledge one another; Sheik with a silent nod, and the Collector with a hollow and cynical laugh.

“Back again so soon, little lady?” he spoke mischievously, voice scratching like a parched wanderer in the desert. “…And you’ve brought a gift with you, how thoughtful… Heh he heh…”

The scowl that came was obscured some by blonde hair as crimson eyes sharpened dangerously, a twitch running through Sheik’s lithe frame. “This is the last time I will tell you not to call me that.” he hissed, voice lower than usual as if asserting masculinity. “And you know well enough by now I will give you nothing without payment.”

Cheekily, the cane was lowered to tap the bottle Sheik held, and the warrior withdrew with a hidden snarl, red eyes flashing with warning as the prize was held high. A tense pause settled between them as the spirits above licked at the bars with hunger, and the warrior spared a distasteful glance to the tattered fabric about the Collector’s torso, likely stolen from a lost guard’s corpse long ago—Zelda within him knew better of it, though. The twisted creature before them was a reminder of how desperate even her own kind could become in darkness.

A pitying hum echoed forth from beneath the hood, and though the Collector’s gaze could not be seen, Sheik could feel it upon him. “…Still chasing that handsome young man, I see.” another scratchy chuckle as the wooden cane met the stone floor. “Such a shame you’re hell bent on being one yourself.”

“Don’t speak of things you don’t understand.” Sheik sighed, allowing his stance to lose its belligerence as his voice came slightly muffled through the mask. “I need only know of his movements with discretion, as per our deal.”

The hauntingly singular glow of the Collector’s visage fixed upon him then, a sharp and sober scrutiny piercing his very bones as if he were no more than another poe to be appraised. Zelda recoiled within him, a strange sense of panic running through their veins as the Princess hid away, though the both of them in such mental scramble felt easily able to be spotted, in that moment.

“…Do you truly believe, little lady, that false eyes cannot see truth?”

The question rang out to echo lightly off of stone, the chamber still against the tone of it as suddenly his pets found nervous pause. Bandaged fingers tightened upon glass only slightly, hesitant, before the captured prize was thrust forward with haste to be taken. When no answer was received, the Collector made no move to take the bottle, his usual greed for such a thing subdued with an eerie and foreboding sorrow. Unable to do more, Sheik fell desperate, dropping the imprisoned poe into the tattered fabric of the Collector’s lap.

“Please, just tell me how he is… I am a stranger to him; he is only a Hero when we meet… You are the only one who can see past it and into his soul…” the warrior breathed, no more than a whisper, inflection feminine and small as the facade began to crack. “Does he still smile when he comes here? Does his fairy still sparkle, chiming like a bell to the wind?” Behind a fringe of blonde, the red eyes flickered blue with glossed sadness. “Is there still a happy boy inside of him, or have I crushed it already as he searches for Zelda? Please, I beg you, please just tell me…”

The Collector seemed to look upward, tracing the wisps of faces above as they stared down at the pair with lingering despair, and slowly he whispered as the cane was set aside to lean against stone brick. “I’ve studied ghosts all my life, little lady, and this world that the Great Ganondorf has provided me is the only one in which I can flourish. That young man of yours is as energetic and lively as ever… So much so, it seems almost as if he shouldn’t be a part of it.”

Sheik’s breath hitched within his chest to hold back a feminine sob as the Collector continued ruefully, holding the bottle up with a knowing eye. “He brings me these wandering spirits with the naïve hope that I can alleviate their pain. He sees only the people they once were, and though he’s never mentioned it, I can tell he looks at me as if I were still the man he met here as a child. There is no bitterness in him for the fact that I have… sold my soul to collect others. Not like you, little lady.”

Inside a divided mind, Zelda recoiled in pain, forced back as she threatened to spill from her keeper’s mouth. Sheik found his gazed glued to the bottle as well, watching the ghost writhe within, begging to be free. “I sold myself to survive as you did. My bitterness is a personal one. My existence to hide hers is one of suffering, it is a curse.” Red eyes narrowed dangerously as his gaze lifted to the Collector. “You welcomed yours as a blessing, and what he sees you for is a lie.”

Though it could not be seen, the Collector smiled with a bleak and honest way, wiry fingers taking to the cork. “Perhaps… But that young man still wants to save me, just as he does the estranged Princess.” he could only chuckle as the poe was loosed with a violent flare, floating up to join the others of its kind as a strange joy overtook them. “We’ll never tell him of what he must destroy to do so, will we? You and I, little  _lad,_ will be as the ghosts he brings me. We were born of this world of darkness, and we hold no place in the light he threatens to bring… Do we?”

With a dismissive grunt the warrior turned, bandaged fingers clenching tightly into fists as he made for the door, squashing the protests echoing out in his head. As it opened with that awful creak, the scratched voice of the Collector followed him, the hint of laughter behind it.

“I imagine he thinks her a spirit, and the Sheikah guiding him to be real… Perhaps, if I give him this very bottle, he may catch me another with the vague hope that it is her.”

Again, the shiver crawled up the warrior’s spine, cold as it left flesh numb in its wake, and it was only then Sheik realised what it meant. It was death, friend to this place, sweeping him with a friendly and knowing caress. The mournful Princess he hid within had shed many tears for that, but the stoic Sheikah knew nothing of them—he ignored them, swallowed them down, like a child denying their mother’s sadness. Sheik hated these meetings with the Collector, only stomaching them for Zelda’s sake, and it was all too clear to him why.

When he stepped across the threshold to feel that chilling sense of displacement, he was reminded, every time, of the fact he was nothing more than a ghost.


	9. Short

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someday, Ganondorf would stand above them all.

When the boy King of the Gerudo tribe set his young mind to a task, he usually went to great lengths to see it done. Despite his age, the child was resourceful and diligent with most endeavours, taking an almost overbearing pride in his achievements; the bigger, the better.

The haughty youth seemed to have a fixation on such things, in fact… bigger rugs, more ‘adult’ attire, larger gourds, heavier weights, and of course visions of grandiose about himself and his bright future as propelled by the support of others. Many sisters would joke privately that the boy 'walked ten feet tall’ in response to this, for as large as Ganondorf’s dreams and preferences seemed to be, the boy himself was at present the shortest in his age group.

But Ganondorf, ears alert to the whispers around him in search of praise or contempt, heard their giggling often enough that it had begun to irk him greatly.

This day had seen him pushed almost to wits end with it, so distracted by these thoughts of height that he was bested in a sparring match by a girl no older than himself. A rare miss on his part had shed temporary fame upon the lucky raider-to-be, but with it came some concern for the little King, painfully replacing the praise he so often received. Embarrassed, he had spent a good hour dodging questions on his health, and even one accusation of having slacked behind this week in training, along with pitying whispers of how the girl in question held a height advantage.

In sheer rebelliousness, the boy had demanded to be allowed entry into the training course and prove the girl’s fluke, only to be denied once again. Talented though Ganondorf was, they would say he was too young, too small as yet to complete the trials. 'Such a precious child’ his aunts would coo, 'another year to come into yourself, my King’ would his attendants soothe, and the boy would huff and glare to stomp away in the first throes of tantrum.

Such a temper for one so small.

It was little wonder that by the time the cooler gusts of twilight swept across the sands, Ganondorf had chosen to seclude himself from others, a quiet new obsession latching onto him with a powerful bite. Dangling upside down from a low-slung beam, tiny fists strained to keep hold of a rather heavy sack of unclean dishes—the heaviest items he could find on short notice without attracting attention. The wood dug into the backs of his knees through loose cotton, and though he had only been at it for a few minutes, his feet had already lost feeling to gain a tingling sensation. The blood had begun to rush to his head in a dizzying and heavy way, and stubborn though he was, the sweat of his palms threatened to send the burlap slipping through his fingers.

Frustrated, he scowled down with determination, fidgeting to keep hold of the weight and willing himself to stretch. He’d had to have gained at least two inches by now, or so he would hope. But when his golden gaze caught the sight of someone rounding the corner, the flinch of distraction was all that gravity needed, and to the stone below came clattering the collected dishes.

“What in the world-!” echoed the shriek, and the boy knew he’d been caught.

Left feeling utterly ridiculous, he breathed a sigh of defeat, skinny arms falling to hang limply with some disappointment. “Go away.” he sulked, as the guard came rushing to aid him, his brows furrowed with an angry pout.

She slowed as she got closer, gloved hands hesitant to touch the sacred boy that outranked her. Blessed with a beautiful and motherly face, she paused to take stock of her King with curious empathy, licking painted lips thoughtfully as her slender brow furrowed.

“…Sire, do you need help… getting down?” she asked quietly, fingers twitching and raised ready to assist.

“No.” he hissed down at her, wearing a horrid frown as his golden eyes flashed wild. “I can do it myself. I got up here alone, and I can get down, too.” For good measure, the boy smacked at one of her hands before crossing his arms in a childish manner.

She recoiled some, withdrawing to hold her arms at the small of her back and nodding curtly to the upside-down sovereign. Ironically, the boy was almost at eye level with her, and glancing down to scan the array of clay pots and broken bowls at her feet, she was able to address him without staring down her nose.

“If I may ask…” she started carefully, raising a brow, “What exactly are you doing up there?”

Ganondorf gave her a withering look, scrunching up his face with childish defence. “How is that any of your business?” he spat, straightening on habit to appear as commanding as possible. “You dare to question your King?”

Despite herself, the guard could barely hide a smirk, taking a hand to her hip in a cheeky manner. “Forgive me, Sire, but you really do beg curiosity in such a position.” she tossed her head lightly, crimson hair swaying behind as her eyes glinted with humour. “It’s my business because I’m the one on dish duty tonight, and you’ve taken everything I needed to wash…” She nodded down. “…And broken most of it.”

Through the veil of his ire, an abashed blush crept over dark cheeks. “Oh.” the boy swallowed once before he caught himself, small hands creeping to fidget with the golden sash around his waist. “Well, you… You are relieved of your duty, obviously. I am a merciful leader, so I won’t punish you.”

Charmed by it, she couldn’t help but laugh, though upon seeing his glare the woman stopped herself, hiding the last of her smile behind her hand. “Sire… come now, you should get down from there. If you fall on my watch, I’ll be whipped for it.” she offered sweetly, waving a hand to encourage him. “This can be our secret… seeing as how you’ve granted me clemency for the dishes.”

With an evasive hum, the now bashful boy shifted, straining upward to grab at his knees and get a hold of the beam. Though he tried to make it look effortless, the exercise had taken its toll on his youthful frame, and he began to struggle. When suddenly he felt the warmth of her hands about his torso, Ganondorf did not protest or resist, relaxing his legs and allowing the kindly woman to assist him. He fell softly into her arms, held as tenderly as if he were her own son, and instead of lowering the boy immediately, she seemed to revel in the slight affection between herself and the small sovereign.

A slight bounce held him at her curvaceous hip, and though the child glared off to one side in a last ditch attempt at dignity, her sweet and motherly voice caught his ear as swiftly as any whispered joke.

“One day, my King, you’ll be a tall and powerful man. You just need to give it time.”

His defiant frown began to fade slowly, and like the child he truly was underneath his status, small fingers found themselves tightening about the loose purple fabric she wore. A tired sigh slipped from his mouth, head hanging guiltily, as golden eyes glanced upward once again to meet hers with sadness in them.

“I want to be like that now, though… Everybody laughs at me for being small.” as he said it, his voice seemed small and unsure. “They don’t let me do anything because they think I’ll hurt myself.”

Her smile was soft as she rubbed his back, providing the comfort that he so often missed out on. “Then you should stop being so reckless. Sire, you keep trying to live up to this image of yourself, and you’ve shown great promise for when you are a man… but for the moment you’re still a boy. The desert kills adults everyday, it isn’t your height that makes us so protective.”

Gentle hands shifted to his ribs to softly lower the child to his feet, and sensitive to his predicament, the woman knelt to maintain eye level as her fingers grazed his cheek. “If it really bothers you so much, then find a skill and practise it with the same effort you put into getting taller. Nobody will think about height differences if they don’t count over prowess… give some substance to your pride without being such a dare devil.”

Though his pout had lessened, Ganondorf turned his nose down to glare at the floor, hands flexing by his sides self consciously. A grimace came about, twitching as the words built up behind it, and finally he grumbled low. “…But I’ll still be shorter than all the girls, even if I’m a hundred times better than them at something.”

She chuckled some, rising slowly and dusting off her pants as the red powder of broken pottery clung to them. “Not for much longer, Sire. Believe you me, when the time comes that you’re taller than the girls, height will be the very last of your worries as a King.”

He gave a dismissive and sulking grunt in reply as she turned from him, padding away with a sway to her hips. Over her shoulder she winked back it him, waving a finger. “Don’t you go asking the exalted TwinRova sisters to make you taller, either.”

But as she left the boy standing there, shifting his weight from foot to foot among shards of terracotta, his young mind began to tick over her words. Whether she’d realise it or not, his obsession with height would die quickly to be replaced with something far more worthwhile; a skill that few Gerudo possessed, and a craft in which size did not matter. At her suggestion his resourcefulness flared to life, and that very night he tore away from the stone walls of the fortress in search of this new fixation, with every intention to be the biggest and best the world had seen.

The boy did not ask the old witches to be taller. As she had said, he would become tall in time…

Instead, he asked them for their tutelage, for she had promised he would be powerful, as well.


	10. Different

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though Link knew the warning of the woods, he couldn’t bring himself to believe it.

The sun threatened to set over the village of Kakariko, drifting low to the lazy turn of the windmill as the skies shifted hue. The people that made simple lives here had already begun to retire into their homes, leaving a quiet weariness in their wake to prepare for tomorrow’s labours.

The soft leather of Link’s boots did not disturb this either, the sound of grass crunching crisply underfoot, subtle as he made his way through from the fields. The young man was thankful that the long stairway, carved into rock to create a private and safe passage, was not a burden to climb as it had been when he was a child—longer legs served him well, and he was reminded of his progress whenever he came here in that way. Even Navi, his ever present companion, could attest to it, no longer needing to wait on the boy to catch up if she flew ahead.

However, this particular trip had been somewhat more taxing than usual—with a fluttering of blue feathers and a slight struggle, Link’s cargo had a nasty habit of getting loose from gloved hands and running about those steps in a flurry. Several times this happened, costing a great deal more effort as the boy ran after it, though compared to the journey on Epona, catching it within the stairway seemed easily managed. Nobody ever mentions to young Heroes how difficult it is to travel on horseback with a cucco… at least the bird’s struggles were quiet. Even flustered as it was, nestled in Link’s arms after the odd journey from the forest, the peaceful atmosphere would not be shattered by shrill crowing.

Cojiro rarely crowed.

“I told you we should’ve set out for the Desert today,” the fairy chimed above him, hovering about his pointed ear with a nagging tone and flickering her wings with impatience. “If you didn’t insist on going home every few days for fresh milk, we wouldn’t be distracted like this nearly as often… You know you could just go to the ranch and save time!”

With a slight shrug, the boy spared a glance to the blue cucco, his attention primarily upon keeping hold of it as it squirmed. “But it was really nice of Malon to give us a cow…” he mused absently, as if not truly listening. “If I went and got milk from the ranch, she’d have hurt feelings.”

With a sigh, Navi seemed to sense there was no helping it now—the Desert Sage would have to wait until tomorrow. “I’m sure Malon would be happy either way, as long as she knows you’re not going thirsty.” she muttered, drifting away from him some as Cojiro flapped.

“I was talking about the cow…” he offered distantly, rolling his eyes and adjusting the bird in an awkward manner to be tucked under his arm.

Despite the odd look his companion no doubt gave, Link’s attention had already shifted. Crystal blue eyes followed the lone tree as they passed it, and shimmered lightly with worry that the bird hadn’t made a sound. The boy knew, from handling the reticent creature before, that it only perked up when near it’s master. Though he tried not to think of it, Fado’s words echoed in his head;  _He’s gone._   _Everybody, Stalfos._ Shaking the unpleasant thought from his mind, his steps quickened to spy another who might be able to help, using a stick as she was to encourage her own cuccos into their pen for the coming night.

When she saw the tell-tale green of his tunic, the woman looked up to lend him a smile, though it was quickly overtaken with some surprise. Closing the small wooden gate quickly, she struggled to greet him with the same cheer as usual, ever grateful as she seemed to be for his frequent aid in handling poultry. Instead, as Link approached her, a sombre and unsure nod was passed between them, her gaze fixed to her brother’s bird.

“Link…?” her brows furrowed toward the handsome lad, setting her stick aside to lean against the fencing. “You’ve got Cojiro? I thought you’d given him to…” her voice seemed to grow breathless, as if too weak to finish, and it was all she could do to glance back at the bird. “…You… haven’t seen him lately, have you?”

The boy came to a stop as she trailed off, the both of them hesitant and unsure as they focused on the cucco between them, and frowned lightly beneath blonde bangs. “Well… I  _did_ give Cojiro to him _…_ ” he offered quietly, trying to ignore the strange feeling in his stomach as he looked to his fairy, searching for support as his fingers began to twitch. “I was hoping to ask you the same. We found Cojiro wandering around the forest, and I thought maybe he’d gotten left behind.”

“Oh, no, no… It’s not like him and Cojiro to be seperated…” came the concerned reply, and Navi felt her heart falling quickly between them.

While Link wore that naïve look of worry and misunderstanding on his face, like a child being told their pet had gone missing, Navi found she could barely stand it. The fairy knew of Grog’s fate, as did the Kokiri, as simplistic a truth as it was… but Link seemed to be in denial. The boy dismissed it, having lived all his childhood in the forest a Hylian himself, and couldn’t readily accept that others of his kin were to be monsters when he was not. He clung to his hope that it was a cautionary tale to those that would be lost; a fable, or a bedtime story, but certainly not true. But Grog, like others that strayed for too long in the woods, never held the protection of the Deku Guardian and unfortunately, quite often fell to sleep within the gases of the forest.

When one such stranger slept, it was only a matter of time before the transformation began; adults into Stalfos, and youth into Skull children. She’d tried to sway him from returning Cojiro, wanting to spare Link that harsh reality, but the boy’s kind concern would not allow it.

Navi had not answered her ward truthfully, when he had asked if Fado spoke the truth, for fears it would lead to heartbreaking questions.

“Maybe he was still in the forest when we found Cojiro, Link, and we didn’t see him nearby.” the fairy lied quickly, cringing unseen for the false hope she gave them. “Best leave him here with the other Cuccos… until his master comes back. Cojiro will be safe and happy here.”

Though Link opened his mouth to protest, he stopped himself when Navi’s light seemed to dim, and thinking her to be worried as he was, said nothing as she began to drift away from them to watch the sunset. With a sigh, the boy would nod to her sullenly, leaning over the fence to return his cargo home with another flurry of feathers and the clucking of its kin.

“Maybe she’s right…” the woman offered softly, swallowing her own concern to place a hand on the boy’s shoulder as the fairy floated away. A tiny smile caught her lips, softening her plainly pretty face as her eyes gained back some shine. “I feel better knowing Cojiro is safe and sound, at least… Who knows, maybe my brother has made friends with a nice fairy, too.”

Link forced himself to return the kind look, a nervous hand brushing his fringe aside, and took elbows to lean upon the fence. A moment passed between them as they both watched the birds in silence, waiting for Cojiro to join the others and peck at the feed. A small and thoughtful hum drew the boy’s attention as the woman held a hand to her face, eyeing him fondly.

“You know, you’re just about the only person my brother liked.” it came almost a whisper, mournful but warm as her gaze traced his features. “He was bullied terribly as a child for his skin condition… Our Grandmother used to make poultices for him to help his rashes, but there wasn’t all that much she could do besides. They called him awful things, told him he was disgusting and ugly…” she shook her head sadly, auburn hair feathering her her jaw and eyes closing to a pained memory. “Everybody gave him a tough time for looking so different. Even father never really gave him a chance.”

An old ache rose up in him with empathy as Link glanced away, fidgeting to pick at his gloves and avoid feelings it dredged up. He grimaced to himself, watching Cojiro as the bird was almost swallowed in the sea of white feathers, tussled about as they fed and occasionally pecked at. “I was bullied as a kid, too… for being different.” it was offered reluctantly, as if the boy still hadn’t quite let go of the past. “A boy called Mido used to tease me like that… Called me names and excluded me from everything. When I finally thought I’d bridged the gap between me and everyone else, he still didn’t accept me. It wasn’t fair, but I guess he couldn’t care less about how I felt.”

With a soft smile and a strange twinkle in her eye, the woman nodded toward the lone blue cucco, watching him in the fading daylight. “When Cojiro hatched, he looked like any other chick, but he never made any noise. My father figured there was something wrong with him, and was going to have him culled. Cojiro would’ve died if my brother hadn’t intervened, and he hand raised him after that… we were all amazed when he grew to have blue feathers.” she turned back to Link, tilting her head. “We all loved him for being different, especially my Brother… But our father still thought Cojiro was useless, because he didn’t crow. They understood each other perfectly, I think, Grog and Cojiro…”

The boy stared at her some, pensive with a sorrowful frown as his knuckles rapped upon wood. “I guess it doesn’t really matter what makes you different. There will always be people who decide they don’t like you for it.” a heavy and defeated sigh escaped him as he righted, stretching lazily.

The woman nodded curtly, glancing past him to see the last of the sun.“You’re right, Link… But then there will also be people who think it’s wonderful and unique.” she followed his suit, picking a piece of grass from her skirt and smiling at him as she flicked it away. “Others might be cruel sometimes, but its little differences that makes a person special, and a good friend can remind you of that.”

The boy paused as the words reached his pointed ears, and from the corner of his mind, a strange and unnerving thought came creeping hand in hand with a rather reassuring one. In the forest, to be different meant to be a stranger, and Link knew that strangers were to be lost, among other tales. Where Mido had been cruel, Saria had always matched it with kindness, but Link had always felt misplaced among the Kokiri… though he had since been made aware as to why; he was, in a sense, a stranger just as much as Grog was. But if he was simply an exception to the rule, that left him with an awful answer as to Grog’s fate, and an unfortunate conclusion for another stranger he now knew had ventured into the woods long ago. The shine of his eyes dimmed as the tug of war between his thoughts unfolded swiftly, but biting back the bitter taste of one side, he offered her only the comfort of the other with a tiny smile.

“Yeah, I guess that is true… Your brother for Cojiro…” he gestured to himself, tugging at his green collar. “And Saria for me.”

It drew a giggle from the woman as her eyes seemed to brighten, and clasping her hands before her, Link could see her hope renewed for his efforts. “Thank you for bringing Cojiro back… and thank you for looking out for my brother.” she offered sweetly, patting the boy’s arm as she moved to finally finish for the day. “I’m sure he’ll be alright… The mushrooms he’s looking for are pretty rare, so I guess it’s only natural he’d be gone a while. If he can find one, our Grandmother thinks she may be able to cure his condition, too. Maybe then, he’ll finally be able to work for our father… He never could stay out in the sun for long.”

But as she padded away with a somewhat cheerier ‘goodnight’, Link couldn’t find the heart to do the same, resigned to a limp wave as he made to return to Navi. His gut was twisting with a horrible feeling as questions burnt painfully in his mind, and when finally he found his companion lingering about the lone tree, the small stool at its foot seemed emptier than before. Lifting blue eyes toward her, they held an empty sort of gleam, filled with a sudden sense of loss.

“Navi…” he called her name delicately, quiet so as not to be overheard. “When I asked you if people… really do turn into Stalfos… and you said no…” the air was thick upon his tongue as he said it, gathering his courage to face the truth. “You lied to me, didn’t you?”

The fairy hovered low, as if weighted down by the ghost of Cojiro’s lost master, and she answered him with guilt. “Yes, Link. I did. I just didn’t want you to be upset.” drawing a long breath, Navi kept her gaze upon the horizon, unable to look at him.

“I heard what she said to you, Link. You were bullied for being different, yes, and even though you thought it was because you had no fairy, now you know you were actually a Hylian… But the Deku Tree knew what you’d become; that you were special, just like Grog knew Cojiro would be, so he… protected you… only you…” Navi’s light had dimmed now from the brilliant azure it usually was to a disheartened and faint glow of sapphire.

“I know it’s horrible, but I’m afraid Cojiro will never crow again. I’m sorry, Link, I… should’ve told you the truth when we found him… They just… fall asleep, you know… They don’t feel any pain…”

A moment passed between them silently as the first stars began to dot the sky, and Navi knew his next question long before his lips moved, shuddering when finally he voiced it with a broken tone.

“…My mother became a Stalfos, didn’t she?”

“Yes, Link…” the sprite choked, barely able to find her voice as her small heart cracked. “…Yes, she did.”


	11. Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though Zelda was held surrounded by windows, it was perhaps Ganondorf she threatened to shatter the most.

Stained glass caged them from the outside world, understated and pale in golden and scarlet hue, framed by blackened stone; his colours. The dim light filtering through these grand windows held thickness, like smoke, painted in dreary and damask shades for such designs.

She found it suited them.

When the Princess looked around her, she saw him reflected in every crevice—in the fragile and creeping lattice as it swept glass like choking vine, in the taste of the cold and stale air, and in the distant gleam of a storm hazed sun faintly reaching to claw at this withered husk of a tower. It contained perfectly, quietly and forcefully, an air of control and order. Something of an arrogance; a taste of finer things that a once hungry King had now learned to savour. Perhaps that was why he kept here within this chamber as well, themed with baubel-like finery.

Satin gloved hands were held behind her back in a guarded manner as Zelda stood, freely inspecting the master craftsmanship evident in the glass depictions. Many might find them vague, a smattering of madness upon prophecy, delicately laid to framework with an almost jaundiced taste of woe. The Princess, however, let her icy gaze roam without bias. She did not feel them tower over her with imposing dominance as intended, but rather, saw in the twisted designs something fragile and curious.

The idle click of her heels haunted him as she perused. Her silence was deafening, and the Evil King found himself unnerved by it. While her eyes wandered, his own golden gaze remained fixed.

Thick fingers would twitch, and the low rumble came quietly, squshed beneath a tension the Gerudo could only hope was mutual. “One would think, Princess, that you have mourned the loss of such luxuries these past years, ensnared as your attentions seem to be… Perhaps there is some envy in your eye?” he began with a subdued and haughty curve forced upon his mouth. “Are you thinking that I do not deserve to reside here? That I have built my tower upon stolen foundations, where  _your_  castle would have stood?”

Zelda would offer only the chime of laughter at first, a soft thing and without mocking or malice. Blonde tresses would sway lightly to the shake of her head, a coy movement to his eye; subtle though it was.

“No, Ganondorf. I merely paused to admire the workmanship. Setting aside what it may have replaced, I can see what arose from the ashes was forged in painstaking detail.” she surrendered her gaze to him then, delicate jawline tilting to capture him in the corner of her eye. “It is a veritable work of art… though like any masterpiece, I cannot help but wonder of the artist behind it.”

No surprise crossed his rough features as they darkened to sneer, a flash of cynical bitterness lining them quickly. “Do not sit and decipher me, girl. I do not care for your opinion of me, nor do I have the patience left to indulge it upon even fleeting whim. You’ll not find my mind and history splayed upon this glass, so do not pretend to.” his growl echoed across the empty space to be absorbed by those very panes, thinly shuddering to the sound of him.

He had not been dealing well with the over-analytical Zelda’s appraisals, and often denied her the chance to impart any wisdoms by them. The very fact that an enemy would have the audacity to inform him of his own nature, as if he were some blinded stranger to himself, was enough of a slap to the face as it was.

What did she possibly have to gain, attempting to lord knowledge of his very being over him so? Judging his worth with that snide, saccharine sense of superiority, and openly telling him not only of his percieved flaws, but how to right them.

She took pleasure in belittling and demeaning him from high upon her pedestal; he was conviced of it, every word from her lips laced with holy poisons tailored only to him.

But the Princess only turned back to the grand displays of stained glass.

“I did not intend to. It would be a fruitless effort, for me to search these things of yours intended for show. I know these depictions and fixtures are just an intentional facade to a greater nuance of you, and I will not insult you by needlessly decrypting their meaning…” a gloved hand rose in gentle gesture to them as she spoke, though quickly found itself folded at the small of her back once more. “I would ask a question, though, if you’ll permit me.”

The Gerudo would eye her from afar, suspicious of what her query might be. But in these precious little moments before the Hero was upon them, and a grand destiny unfolded before him, she provided the distraction and surcease of anxiety he knew—for owning a paranoid mind—was fragile at best.

“And here I thought you hellbent on answering unasked questions.” he would hiss with a sardonic tone, crossing bulky arms over an armoured chest. Fiery brows knitted together over golden slits, narrowed in condemnation of this. “I will humour you, Zelda, provided it silences your incessant need to pry further.”

With graceful fluidity she turned, the hem of her dress as a whisper to stone beneath her, and the aloof stare fell upon him, unabated. Her pale countenance betrayed nothing of what she may ask, and the radiance of her was doused by the sombre hues cast about the chamber. Flecks of faint yellow and faded red painted her lifelessly to match him, and in that moment, the two stood shaded by the same grim window as it wrought their shadows upon the floor.

“You sit at the top of this lonely tower, denying yourself an all encompassing vantage of your greatest conquest… but if you truly feel worthy of ruling it, why blind yourself to such spoils? Why not gaze upon the lands you’ve aquired and treasure them, gloat for them, like you do the shallow fixtures of this chamber?”

It was the seat of his power, the helm of her stolen country, and the mighty zenith of his domain rising jagged from a bleak horizon to loom over all. And yet, the glass imprisoned him as well as it did her.

She would not receive an answer. The unruly flash of gold pinned her there, glaring tongues of fire to sweep this vexing woman before a wave of his hand dismissed her. He threw his cape aside as he turned to the grand organ beside him, and the Princess found herself returned to the crystalline prism, silenced. He would drown out the echo of her foul words with disjointed notes of agitation, thick fingers taking to the ivory instead of her swanlike neck.

He should’ve known better. He should’ve known there was no mercy for him upon that sly and serpentine tongue. Even against the powerful thrum of music, there was no salvation now that her seed of destruction was planted to grow within his mind. Link may deal the final blow, but Zelda needed nothing so trivial to be the key to his downfall—she could weaken him with words alone, and though he often denied it, he knew this to be true.

They were not truly windows at all, and it pained him that she found it so obvious.

No, windows allowed one to view and be viewed… these were bars of glass, forged from the last hidden vestiges of shame and regret. The lands he coveted, he had ruined; lush fields grew more brown by the years, rivers trickled weak, and once blue skies were burdened by angry clouds. He had destroyed Hyrule, to avoid surrendering it. He did not wish to see it… But neither could he let it go. The chaos of the outside was not what he had wished for, and in his struggle to achieve his ideal, this chamber fed him the illusion of success and control.

And when the Hero had come and gone, whether it resulted in the Gerudo’s favour or not, an estranged and quiet corner of his mind had prepared for it with an otherwise forgotton and nostalgic sorrow.

The beast in him would have its cage, nonetheless, and each of them reflected his heart.


	12. Oceans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tetra found she missed the gentle rock of waves as she lay within his sturdy bed.

Her home was her Ocean. Life atop the waves, rather than below or beside them, seemed the only natural course her years would follow. You could raise the very mountains from the seabed, watch the islands lift upward as if to spear the clouds and gaze upon the lush fields as they basked in the sunlight once more…

She would cleave to her ship all the same, to sail whatever waters were left to her.

All this Tetra had told him, though burdened by the face of a princess, her captor accepted very little of it as truth. It had passed Zelda’s lips, though it came purely from the pirate’s heart. He dismissed her words like a deckhand swatting gnats in the summer heat.

The large bed barely creaked as the Gerudo’s weight was lowered upon it, sturdy hardwood frame accepting it almost fondly as he took to sitting at his own bedside. Golden eyes glinted tiredly over the young captain with fading anger, subtle and awash with private miseries left unshared. They reminded Tetra almost of sunken treasures, caught winking in a waterlogged sunbeam to be found and rescued from their watery grave.

Thoughtful, he would rest a hand upon his knee and shift to appraise her once more, sullen and—for the moment—sated.

“You speak of the seas above with all the passion I did a part of this land below them, Princess…” he offered quietly, patient for her youth. “…when I too was young and adoring of the place I called ‘Home’.”

Uncomfortably adjusting the cylindrical silken pillow, propping herself up further, Tetra’s teal eyes flashed with irritation toward him.

“I told you once, don’t call me that.” she hissed waspishly, before a sigh calmed her some. “The land down here is beautiful, sure, and it probably would make for a great place to live… But that’s what you don’t get, Ganondorf, it isn’t the world people like me—or anybody up on those islands—understands. It’s foreign to them, it’s not the salty air we breathe or the spray of the sea. It isn’t what they know.”

She said it more forcefully now, repeating it in different ways over the last few days as she had been. It bordered on seeming useless now to even try to explain it, and seeing the slightly bemused furrow of his thick brows once again, the pirate silently gave up. Blonde hair wisped behind her shoulders as her head shook, her gaze falling forlorn to the velvety covers as a small shrug was offered.

The Dark King beside her, however, seemed suddenly more attentive to her reasoning.

“No,” his voice wavered on a low timbre, rumbling to send a tremor of remorse through old bones. “It is what they’ve come to forget. Stolen from them and washed away…”

The gold of her brows furrowed upon his words, and from under the girl’s anger came some empathy, crawling out from the very bottom of Tetra’s heart. It occurred to her that the gentle rock of waves that lulled her at night would likely keep the Gerudo awake. The stillness unnerved her here, lifeless like something was wrong, though the steady ground beneath their feet probably held the opposite sensation for him.

It seemed to her Ganondorf knew little of this new world, obsessed with the old; a mystery locked away like the royal blood she had only recently discovered in her veins. Fleeting visions of grass and sky, the stark green of it haunting behind her eyelids, breezed her mind. She held fondness for them, the odd burst of familiarity they brought through a haze of alien texture, and it pained the pirate that she knew not of whether those visions had merely been borrowed.

Was it what lay outside his tower that she had glimpsed, or was it the memory the Gerudo seemed all too keen to evoke in her? Either way, Tetra couldn’t help but feel sorry knowing his home had been lost, though she wasn’t about to sacrifice her own to comfort him.

Still the dark man continued quietly, harsh features wearing a stern and weary frown. “When I first laid my hand to the Holy Relic, it shattered before me and the other two pieces fled my grasp. I suppose the Gods are fickle… they would leave true power to tempt their children with, daring us to take hold of it. But, when I rose to that task and saw it done, they granted but one part only to take the rest of the spoils within seven short years. My efforts seemed wasted, as if I had been tricked.”

Tetra fixated upon his profile sharply, tracing the outline of the Gerudo’s nose and brow. She strained to see the monster shining there in his eye, reminding herself not to yield to his cunning mind. He was built of lies and bloodshed, and had caused nothing but pain. Tetra knew him only as a rogue wave that threatened to capsize every island on these seas and drown those who sailed upon them. She didn’t feel comfortable when faced with the humanity within the dark king.

The bubble of pity, or even whatever it resembled of understanding, was held away from her surface with great effort while he spoke.

“Those damnable sages saw me knocked from my throne and bound away in a realm blackened by my nature. When after years I escaped my chains, I seared the world like a desert wind for my revenge, and they could do nothing against my assault. Hyrule was mine for the taking once more, battered and broken beneath me… though like before, when I reached to take hold of my goal, it fled my hand. The flood waters came to wash away what I had done when a Hero could not. The Gods would spite the land itself, if it were to be mine… Perhaps I sparked their tempers for taking Hyrule through destructive means.”

A small sigh drew bitterness from his lips, and Ganondorf would lift his gaze upward to peruse the heights of the chamber, almost as if searching for the Gods’ eyes looking down. “Whatever the case… I met every challenge put to me; I won the race for the golden realm. Yet I receive only punishment where they promised reward.” The hand upon his thigh slowly closed into a fist, Power flickering at its back with silent pathos.

“You don’t deserve to be rewarded when you  _cheat_  in that race.” she muttered quietly, grimacing with some sarcasm and fighting the urge to roll her eyes. “You didn’t meet the challenges, you manipulated them and snuck around. You strong armed your way to glory, instead of earning it by overcoming the hurdles. When you aren’t scheming around things, you just barrel through like a mad Sharpedo, ripping any obstacle apart with your teeth and leaving a cloud of gore behind.”

With a slight huff, the young captain would cross her arms in a point of defence, her mouth screwed to one side with distaste. Tetra had never been one for fancy words and grand speeches, nor bragging or even intent. In her life she had learnt to trust actions and deeds, and put her faith in those alone.

In the Gerudo’s case, however, she made an exception. She knew what Ganondorf said he would do would indeed come to pass, if she did not make a liar of him by preventing it.

A good few moments of silence passed between them before strange and haunted sort of smile curved his mouth knowingly, the barest hint of his fang-like canines to be seen in its corners. A tone hitched in his throat like a caught chuckle, guilty yet amused. “You are right. It must be said that I was left little other option, but certainly, I’ll be the first to admit to my errors in the past. I was haughty, blinded by my pride and fury… I lacked restraint and patience.” Tilting his head, the smile remained though his teeth grew hidden.

“I needed to experience that failing so that I could rectify it now. My destiny is to be Hyrule’s true King, and my trials did not end with gaining my crest as I had expected. Rising and falling, escaping my bonds and surviving the deluge… it has tempered me like a blade, reforged, and now I stand fit for such a task. The final test of my worth is upon me.”

The pirate’s cute features had been slowly devolving into contempt, though the teal of her eyes shone vulnerable and confused. Her arms tightened over her chest as if to force the breath from her lungs, bringing up tender words with them; small and sad.

“Why do you hate my ocean?” she whispered softly, mournful for it. “Can you not see the beauty  _it_ holds? A provider of our needs and a jealous guard for our safety, the sea protects those in her care. Forever changing, untamable, you have to work for her affections and sail her with respect. The islands are painted in the spring and she kisses us with gentle mists. In the winter, she rages away from our shores. She is a spirit of mercy, though she doesn’t coddle the weak. Do you see none of that when you look…?”

A wry chuckle from him cut her short, and the Gerudo paid no mind to the affronted look she sent him. Running a large hand through the blaze of red hair, he seemed amused by some internal joke, indulging it before golden eyes found her again.

“As I said earlier, your passion for the sea reminds me of my own in youth. Perhaps that is a good answer to your question… Tetra, wasn’t it?” he plucked her name so suddenly, as if he simply hadn’t noticed it was there before. A fiery brow cocked briefly, something cynical to it.

“I hailed from the West, when this land saw the sun… and a harsh sun it was. My home was an arid place, a desert that went on as far as the eye can see… much like your ocean. It was always changing, whipped up in constant movement like your waves above. It took many lives, and did little to sustain those who did survive there. The occasional oasis provided refuge for those tossed about in the sands, not unlike your islands. Your seas yield no fish, and my desert did not yield fruit. The expanse required wit and experience to cross, just the same, and it was a hard journey… But I believed her to be a beautiful mistress once, strict as she was.”

Harsh features darkened with the ghost of old pains, and he stared the pirate down with a decisive click of his tongue. “But I grew out of such naïve adoration for my home. My love for her was unrequited, clearly, and Hyrule beside her provided the nurturing care we never received from the sands. I look out upon your ocean, child, and I see only the hardships of my desert reborn within those waters. If I were content to suffer such a fickle and vengeful mistress, I would not have set out from my home in the first place.”

There was something gravely earnest to the hard lines of his worn features then, as if silently pleading with her to see reason. “It is my duty to resurrect Hyrule, and if you knew the splendor of your own country, you would not hesitate to help me in that task. Let me correct my mistakes, and I will teach you and all those above to know this land again.”

Tetra’s eyes narrowed upon him stubbornly, golden hair swaying as she shook her head lightly. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re doing us 'ignorant fools’ any favors.” The sombre shadow of her face lifted then, a smirk growing in its place as she gave a coy wink.

“You keep talking like the Gods have punished everyone by taking away what they knew and loved. I can see your anger toward them and the regret you have within yourself. They took it from you too, after all. But you’d be a hypocrite to think its okay for you to take away the seas, the thing we know and love now, to make amends. Two wrongs don’t equal right, Ganondorf, and it won’t absolve you of your mistakes or make you any more worthy to rule despite them.”

Her smirk faded some, and something serious overcame her then, both eyes closing with resolve. “You aren’t giving anything back, just taking more things away. You’re still as selfish and greedy as ever, you’ve just gotten better at justifying it. Link will be here soon enough, and when he is, you’re going to have to accept that the Gods sealed Hyrule for a reason. It was to protect its secrets, stem the flow of evil that they draw to abuse them and give its peoples a clean slate, free of ancient burdens… like  _you_.”

Biting back on the fury that began bubbling in his blood, the Gerudo’s lips drew thin and golden eyes sharpened back into the monster she sought in them. His features knit back into the resentful scowl he usually carried, the lightest twitch upon his lip as he warred with a forming sneer, trying not to defy his professed composure. The dark king rose quickly to his feet and it was clear their conversation was done, a dismissive wave of his sleeve given as he moved to tower over her.

“Don’t be so quick to dismiss your title, child…” he growled low, his eyes burning with a hateful glare. “ _Princess_  fits you more than you know.”

Even so, it was Tetra alone that matched his gaze, her own teal eyes alight with conviction even as she felt the spell of sleep heavy upon them. “You can’t take our ocean away from us, just because you can’t tame her. That’s precisely why we have her in the first place.”

Like the country outside of his tower, Hyrule’s Princess succumbed then to a deep slumber beneath the waves, but her words would echo for what seemed like an eternity afterward. The Gerudo stared at her all the while, haunted by them, and though he willed himself to be done with her for now, he couldn’t shift himself from her side.

He knew she was dreaming of her Ocean, and in that moment, he wondered if it truly would still be there when she woke.


	13. Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Happy Mask Salesman’s question seemed clear, though Link wondered if it was truly meant for him.

Another low rumble sweept through the foreign land as the encroaching moon loomed large overhead, and it seemed the tremors grew more violent each day. Not a single person could ignore the shudder beneath their feet, the air thick with fear and silent tension as many began steeling themselves for the worst. One did not have to look far, even on the bleak Terminian shore, to find despair clawing at the isolated hearts of those who would reside here.

No matter where Link turned his gaze, he saw a doomed land moaning weakly in the final throes of death…

And like so many others, the boy’s hope, too, had begun to wane.

Sitting in the pale and grainy sand, dulled azure eyes stared out at the misty horizon, unable to find the line separating sea and sky. He could hear his heart beating slowly, counting the precious seconds as they ticked away, and cast a glance to his effects before him as they sat strewn around his legs. A melancholy sigh left Link’s lips as he reached to pluck the Ocarina from the sand, but pausing to let his hand hover with uncertainty, found himself withdrawing instead.

True, he could reset the clock, alter fate’s design and little by little mend the chaos wrought upon this world. It was a hard and puzzling task, overwhelming to his senses of place and time, and though it took its toll heavily the boy would give his all to see it done. But Link was beginning to realise, painfully, that there were some things even he could not prevent or change.

Inclining his head to the side, peering mourfully through blonde bangs, he allowed his attention to linger upon the fresh grave of Mikau. This was the second time he had watched the guitarist of the Indi-Go-Go fame die, and the second time he had laid him to rest upon this lonesome beach to be marked by a makeshift grave. The first time he had come across the dying Zora, he had seen him pass with some semblance of peace, and for such kindness another mask would manifest. Seeing his work done and paying his respects, Link had the set about fulfilling Mikau’s final requests.

The boy had worked quickly, dilligent, and reunited Lulu with her stolen eggs. He had even passed on Mikau’s farewells to his bandmates, in one way or another. Every loose end the Zora’s untimely death had left behind was steadily fastened by Link’s caring hand, each of the three days available spent wisely and coming to—what seemed like—a satisfying closure.

But out of time, and with pressing purpose, the dawn of the third day had come upon him as it always did. Melody played, the Gods had seen fit to whisk the young Hero back in time once again to continue on his quest, and in doing so, reset the the world he stepped out into. Ever faithful, the boy had set out with every intention to cleave for the next Giant’s call, though when his boots met the sands once more, Link could journey no further.

Mikau’s grave absent, Link’s care undone, Lulu’s eggs stolen once more; greeted by the caw of seagulls and the awful sight of the Zora’s dying form, just as before, the gravity of this awful loop hit him. No matter what pains were taken, the Hero’s efforts seemed for naught, erased as he ventured backward to buy time.

Time, Link knew, that could only be wasted within this hellish limbo, were he to repeat such kindness… and yet, he had found himself pausing to bury the Zora once more, unable to ignore him now that such connection had been made.

Three masks had been laid out before him to surround his Ocarina as Link ruminated on such thoughts, remorseful and morose. He was beginning to recognise now how cruel fate seemed to be; for every three days he spent slowly advancing to save them all, he had to sacrifice each of them many times. He simply couldn’t do it all in such a short period, forced to favor some over others. How many broken people, struggling and scared, would he have to ignore when the final three days came in order to save this dying land?

Their problems would still unfold as they always did. Link could fill the last cycle with only so many before facing the moon itself, but once that elusive fourth day finally broke, there would be no going back for the rest. Some would remain simply too late to help…

Darmani and Mikau’s masks reminded him of that.

The chime-like tone of Tatl’s wings, as she fluttered about in the fading hue of sunset, had grown restless now. So much time had been wasted to Link’s inner turmoil, silent as the boy had become. She knew that sorrow plagued him, but the clock would not relent—barely six hours remained for the young Hero to take them back again, or risk meeting their own untimely deaths as the catastrophe came to pass.

Urgently, though with a rare softening of her words, she would attempt to coax him once more.

“Link… I know things look bad, but we have to get going now. You’ve had a good two days rest, but we’re running out of time. Get up.”

A few moments went by with only silence returned to her, and the fairy heaved an impatient, though defeated, sigh. She could barely stand to look at him when such a mood claimed him, and as the sea breeze swept softly across the sand, only when she had drifted away from him some did his voice reach her; small.

“…You’ve met a terrible fate, haven’t you…?” it was a broken whisper, soft and mournful, that left him as he reached for the third mask in his set.

Tatl found pause, taken aback by such an odd statement as she whipped around to face him, confused and alarmed. “…What?”

But as she watched her small companion lift the Deku mask into his lap, she realised he wasn’t talking to her. Link ran his fingers slowly across the wooden surface, rough and uneven as it was, as if mottled by scars. Azure eyes lingered upon the sorrowful gaze the mask returned to him, and the boy found his vision blurred by tears as a soft sob hitched in his throat. To the concerned fairy he turned suddenly, and for the first time Tatl saw the child he resembled shining in his gaze, lost and alone.

“…That’s what he told me when I first came here, remember?” Link’s voice wavered slightly upon the tears he held back, his childish features twisted into a pained frown as his head hung to stare at the mask again. “All this time, I thought he said it to me… He seems to remember me, like maybe he knew what I’d had to give up, somehow… before I came here… not just the fact that I was cursed.”

Another cringe of sadness came of him, and it was obvious the boy had held back far more of himself and his pains than Tatl would ever know. A slight tremor took the mask as his small hand began to shake, and even more quietly now, he shook his head with a sigh. “But he was talking to the spirit of the Deku shrub, the dead one we passed in the forest. He was the butler’s son… it was him who met a terrible fate, because… he had to die for me to find this place. He was killed so that his spirit could be used to curse me, and prevent me from coming here, like Skullkid knew once I saw what he was going to do, I’d fight to stop it… but I can never bring the butler’s son back. Just like I can’t save Mikau.”

He seemed to get a better hold of himself then, recoiling away from his companion some as if embarrassed for his show of weakness. He sniffed some to wipe his nose on the back of his hand, and against the skin he muttered with a cynical, somewhat angry, tone.

“I’m just so sick of seeing it. A sacrifice for the greater good… Like something precious always has to be lost before anything can be saved. It isn’t fair, I was happy to be a hero… I don’t need to lose anything or anyone to do the right thing. Nobody should have to; if I’m needed, I’ll be there! I don’t want to be ‘persuaded’ or 'lured’… I don’t want to be 'blackmailed’ into it anymore… I don’t even want to think about what they’re going to take away from me this time.”

The fairy took this in silently, the beat of her wings slowed by a feeling of guilt she couldn’t shift as she reflected on her own treatment of the boy. She found she understood his ruefulness, somewhat, and was internally sorry to have added to them as she had. Fluttering down to hover carefully over his shoulder, she gave consolation to the twitch of his pointed ear.

“Link… I don’t know where you come from, or what happened to you before all this, but…” she paused, searching for the words. “…you know I’m sorry for trying to manipulate and use you like I did when we met. I know it’s no excuse, but you just seemed so… used to be treated that way that I… I’m just sorry, okay?”

“You were just worried about your brother… I get it.” A weak roll of his shoulders offered a shrug as the boy closed his eyes to the twilight around them.

“Truth is, it never really bothered me how you were, because… you reminded me of an old friend. I was so desperate to have her back, I guess I didn’t care if you treated me badly or were rude, because everytime I saw you beside me, it made everything feel normal again. Like no matter where I was, or how bad it seemed, I’d be okay… That’s why I was in those woods in the first place. I was looking for her. I just wanted to know why she left me behind… whether it was all a lie and she was only doing her duty; maybe she was just using me, too. I don’t want to believe that, but I just don’t know anymore. She was my best friend… but, she never even said goodbye.”

The gentle breeze drifted over them with a salty tang, the red and purple haze on their horizon fading into a lonely black, and Tatl found herself fed up with the boy’s depression. She sympathised, yes, but there was only so much of him kicking himself the fairy could patiently take. Stubbornly, her wings would ring like a sobering bell, and with a final huff she would have no more.

“Well, if you were anything like this with her, I don’t blame her for running off on you! Snap out of it, Link, this is pathetic.” the fairy saw the boy flinch, pained by her comment, though he hid the extent of it under his bangs. An irritated sigh came from her, and her tone sounded all the world like a mother standng with hands on hips to chastise.

“Sure, that Salesman said the shrub met 'a terrible fate’, whatever, some people have them and there’s nothing you can do about it… but there’s so much you  _can_ do to make up for the few you miss. You know what else he said?  _Have faith,_ and he said that _to you._  Have faith in people. Have faith in yourself. Wherever she ran off to, if she was really your best friend, she would’ve had a good reason to and you know that deep down. Have faith in  _her_! Maybe she left you because she knew your search for her would lead you here, did you ever consider that? Ugh, You’re just like Skullkid!”

Upon the sand, the boy shifted defensively, hugging his knees close to his chest as her words settled in. Slowly, almost unsure of himself, Link’s head lifted to let glassy blue eyes settle upon the fairy with a silent question in them, desperate to hear the answer as she continued on her rant.

“You’re a lonely kid, so you think it’s okay to berate yourself about it. I know you feel like your friends deserted you, or that you were left behind, and you want to know why… but you’ll be no better than Skullkid, if you keep on like this and give in to it. You’ll be one mask away from causing a catastrophe, because you’re too busy chasing your old friends instead of being happy with your new ones!”

Unable to bite back on her temper, she let it all go, hoping that her terse way of caring would jostle him enough to see sense. “Stop focussing on what you can’t have, and look at what you’ve achieved despite that! You’re going to save this world, and everyone in it. No matter what their problems are, they’ll get through them because they're  _alive_ , and it’ll all be thanks to you. You don’t need to solve all their problems for them, Link, the fact that you’re giving them a tomorrow in which to do it themselves is enough!”

The child shining in Link’s eyes seemed grow brighter with every word she said, each blink leaving them drier than before and filling him with the reassurance he was so often denied. He missed Navi dearly, but he knew Tatl was right—she would never have left his side, if the choice was merely his… But perhaps, as he thought on it, this was exactly why she did. He had never been a Kokiri, and though he was at peace with that, he knew he still feared growing into a man. Men could not rely on fairies to guide them and fill them with confidence when they faltered. It was a child’s hand that needed to be held so, and he could not remain a child forever. He was destined to grow up, and running from it was simply not possible.

He had to face his adulthood—his fears, and his future—with the courage he was famed for. Navi had left him not because she wanted to, but because he needed to recognise it wasn’t her help that made him a Hero. She had played her part, and it was time for him to stand on his own two feet.

It was, and had always been, Link’s spirit that saw him through the odds, and he needed to have more faith in it.

This second guessing himself was exactly what Navi had sought to avoid upon parting with him, he realised, and for that he was slightly ashamed. But gazing up at the new fairy to grace his side, he was truly grateful to Tatl for finishing off what Navi never could. Where Navi would simply placate the child, knowing she could do nothing more, Tatl was ready to slap sense into a young man instead.

When Link left this land, he knew he would still miss Navi, and now Tatl as well… but instead of clinging desperately to them like a crutch in times of weakness to come, he would cherish their memories and hold to the lessons they imparted to sustain him.

Just as Navi had intended him to.

As the wheels turned in the boy’s head, finally clicking into place, Tatl softened when she saw the change, knowing she had gotten through. “Mikau, the Butler’s son, Darmani, even your friend… sometimes you can’t avoid losing something, but you  _can_  make surethat it isn’t lost in vain.” the tiniest hint of pride shimmered lightly as she finished, then. “…So, suck it up. We’ve got a moon to catch.”

After what seemed like a small eternity, his childish features bereft of any hope in that time, a small twitch to his cheeks broke the spell of sadness. It only grew from there; small at first, the curve of a smile claimed his face to brighten it into one that Tatl recognised. A final sniff to clear his nose saw the boy take back to the other masks, gathering them into his arms with a newfound sense of purpose, and finally his Ocarina would be plucked up from the sands as he stood.

“…Thanks, Tatl. You’re a good friend.” he offered privately, a whisper between them in the night as he gave his best lopsided smile to her, and raised the ocarina to his lips. “Well, then… I guess we better get going.”

Though the fairy had no smile to return him with, a slightly brighter glow than usual lit up her wings with the chime of a bell, though she hid it well with her usual impatience.

“…It’s about time.”


	14. Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the nights, a bitterly cold wind sweeps through you, as if you were not even there. It howls around you without care for whether you were alive or dead, for soon enough you will be gone, and that wind will still remain.

The quill tip drifted then from candlelit parchment, hesitant in its pregnant pause, before finally removing its slim shadow from the fluid Gerudo script beneath. With a sigh, a heavy hand would set the task aside, returning quill to inkwell and allowing it to rest there with an unfinished page for lonesome company.

These were thoughts that brought his weathered body an old ache, and his bleak heart an even older sorrow and despair.

Whipping the sands outside of these fortified walls, the subject of Ganondorf's musings did indeed lash the land with a harsh and unmitigated assault, muffling the heavy scrape of wood upon stone as he eased his chair back to rise. Even with the wooden hatches closing off the window like slits in their walls to protect them, the weary Gerudo King could tell by the chill in the air alone how late into the night he had strayed.

This hour was not going to afford him any better clarity in which to write these familiar things; this draft documentation of his home and culture, prepared for no less than the Hyrulean Royal archives by request of their sovereign. An early and cordial show of civility, he knew, meant to bolster the supposed respect for one another's newly allied peoples.

Biting back on the cynical grimace his lips twisted to form, sceptical of how such relations would endure with the wounds of war still so fresh and running tired fingers through crimson hair, Ganondorf resigned himself to rest. Despite the pitching roar of the gales outside, he tempered his massive form to stealth, shifting quietly through his own chambers with muted, bare footed steps. Golden eyes traced the path before he took it, scanning for any potential obstacle in the dim and flickering light, careful for fear of waking her.

Nabooru's temper could match his own, when riled by a disturbed slumber—so rare it was she slept peacefully, these days, he had taken habit to staying up and allowing her to first fall unimpeded into sleep before joining her. It mattered little that it was his bed, or what most of their sisters may think inconvenient or taboo; ignoring their King's comfort before their own willingly.

But he found his own rest was better taken, when slumber invited him with the subdued vision of her first and the gentle rhythm of her breathing to lull him after.

It caught him by surprise when, half way through easing his bulk through the somewhat too narrow space of an ajar door—simply to avoid the creak of it—her amber eyes followed the movement, alert and awake as ever.

An awkward moment of silence lingered between them with only the sound of the desert's fury to liven it, lover's caught witnessing a private show of affection otherwise untended. Nabooru knew of his odd habits, and he of hers, but both resolved to leave them be and ignore them for the most part. To witness them and acknowledge they were there, was to invite more burdens upon an already strained relationship.

They would hide their love from even each other, and there in the shadow of feigned ignorance, it flourished.

And so she passed by his attempts to be subtle, tucking them away as if he had barged in and woken her rudely, as anyone else would've expected.

She averted her gaze as he righted himself and the door came creaking wide, swiftly rolling her eyes to cover any surprise she might have had by his rare consideration. Scoffing, tanned cheek squashed lazily against pillow, the Thief looked unimpressed by his joining her.

"Not that I need beauty sleep, looking as I do… but if you insist on stomping around like a Labrynnian elephant at this time of night, you'll wake the entire fortress."

Only a hint of sarcasm graced it, talented as she was in tailoring her tones, and the pensive scowl he wore deepened for it.

"If they can sleep through your snoring, Nabooru, the steps of their King should do nothing to perturb them further." he hissed back, low and resentful—he too had mastered the syllables his tongue could form.

Slipping corded muscle out of the arms of his cotton robe, he would sneeringly convert the motion into a careless toss, casting the garment at his company with a want to cover her.

Not that he didn't enjoy the sight of her flinching to catch it, broken from her naked sprawl upon his sheets as her peaceful silhouette was shattered and replaced with a flurry of copper skin and long, fluid tresses. A huff and a vivid amber glare followed the now shirtless King as he meandered toward his bedside, and his second would use the robe as a whip to lash him for such rudeness.

Thick fingers would catch the abused material as it breezed his arm, a strong grip stifling her efforts as the sudden game drew a smirk to his lips.

A small tug of war would ensue, futile as it was but stubborn as both of them would ever be; her body twisted to gain leverage as her foot lashed out toward his abdomen. His heavy palm was quick to meet it, sending the limb to one side of him as his knee fell to the folds of the bed between her thighs. Still she fought him for the robe, pressing a hand to his chest to keep him off of her in a struggle they both enjoyed, but would never admit to inviting.

She hissed and spat at him, defining new forms of treason for the slanderous titles she adorned him with.

He silenced her with one final tug of the robe, drawing her close enough to smother those acidic lips and taste the sweet nectar within, claiming some small victory.

He could document every facet of his people, of the harsh nature of his home, but these memories were his and no Hylian would ever know them. She held within her the very fires of what kept the Gerudo alive—kept him alive—in this hellish place, where even the wind threatened to strip the flesh from your bones. They need not dabble on shows of romance, nor entertain the notion of proclaiming these moments to the world, or each other. Surviving was a blessing enough in itself within the valley, and so they did not think and show and faun, but act and live and breathe.

The winds of his desert would carry her away as dust one day, he knew, much as it pained him to admit…

…but for now, she would lay hidden in his bed chambers, protected from the ravages of time for as long as his passions could keep her there; safe and his alone.


	15. Comb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If only the tangles of their relationship could be brushed away, as well.

The task of running a comb through such lengthy crimson tresses was a strenuous one, but Nabooru had always found it a peaceful part of her routine. She took no less than an hour each night, letting her hair loose and working through it in portions. It always seemed a near impossibility that she could be free of every small knot and tangle at the beginning, but having seen it fall straight like the waterfall of the valley a thousand times before, she held faith that success would come again.

It had never bothered her when he watched.

Her King's golden gaze was welcomed, in point of fact, for she knew how he favoured her hair. It was the envy of many sisters, and Nabooru held great pride in its care and lustre—she knew it looked effortless to them. Ganondorf was one of very few who had ever witnessed her strict regime of oiling and combing, knives taken to the very tips once a week to be rid of the split ends a desert's heat produced.

It was a nightly practice she would normally keep hidden—just as a magician performing in the streets of castle town would never reveal his tricks for the illusion—but with the lone male of her kind, she revelled in allowing him this private glimpse. She wanted him to see the lengths she took to maintain its radiance and delicate texture, if only to remind him to appreciate it further.

So many of those things he favoured of her once had been lost to his distractions already, as more and more of Ganondorf's attentions went astray. The sheen of her amber eyes had been slowly replaced by the glass of a compass. Instead of mapping copper skin, he traced his fingers upon an atlas. Words spoken between them had been swapped for writing in dusty old tomes, leaving only silence late at night.

Nabooru could not let him forget her hair, when it was the only thing still beauteous enough to sway his attention.

Setting the comb down gently, her gaze shifted to capture his in the mirror, privately treasuring the rare sight of him simply sitting upon the bed to watch her. There was no book in his hand, nor any other thought on his mind that she could see; the lines of his face free from the pensive scowl he wore when mulling the east. Her lips pursed as she watched the man grow quizzical behind her, eyeing the idle comb at her side and glancing between it and her half finished hair.

It was the only warning he'd get to pay attention closely, and Nabooru counted the seconds before his reflection finally looked to her face. A flash of surprise caught him to see the subtle anger there, and though he hid it quickly, the woman would seize upon the opportunity to have his undivided attention.

Shifting on her stool, she turned to one side, staring over her shoulder expectantly—she knew it would draw him to speak. An unexplained stare always did, but the hair would cement it. He held an obsessive need for closure, and if nothing else, always tried to finish whatever he or anybody else started.

Ganondorf cracked a moment later, the corner of his mouth ticking with displeasure. "Is there any particular  _reason_  you've stopped, or are you just trying to be suspenseful?"

"You already know the ending. I come to bed, you run your fingers through straight hair." she shrugged nonchalantly, keeping a distance in her tone. "I was just wondering whether you still would if I didn't brush the tangles out."

Thick brows twitched with some confusion for her statement, but sensing an argument, a scowl was quick to take its place as the Gerudo King's head inclined. "Not that you haven't already formed some ridiculous answer in your head, but yes, Nabooru. Why wouldn't I?" it was sneeringly given.

His second's gaze sharpened into a glare as she readied some venom of her own. "I don't know, Ganondorf, why don't you tell me? Say I don't brush it tonight, or tomorrow night, or for a week or a month, would it still be good enough? Or would you lose interest and start running your fingers through some other bitch's hair?" as if in point, her shoulder rolled to toss a wayward lock aside; neglected.

The King stared at her for a long moment, his mouth hanging open just a sliver for the audacity, before a humourless scoff rolled from his throat. Sending his gaze to the window—simply to find some distraction in the stars—he would lightly shake his head, mentally trying to map where this evening had derailed as to draw such ire upon himself. There was nothing he had said or done that he knew to pinpoint and blame, but then again, there often needn't be. Shifting his jaw from side to side with that thought, his bulk would shift, bare feet finding the sandstone brick of the floor.

Nabooru watched him like a hawk as he stood, tensing in her seat like a cobra about to strike.

With a lessened frown, golden eyes shifted to peer sidelong at her, and a cynical curve ghosted his lips as he moved heavy feet toward the window. "You just can't let me have it, can you?" he seethed, tired and resentful as he held up a finger. "One thing, Nabooru, after a long and trying day... to simply sit and  _watch_  a beautiful woman comb her hair without having my intentions weighed. Gods forbid, it  _calms_  me."

She noted the bitterness tainting his words, and she simply couldn't hold it in—perhaps she couldn't simply 'let him have it', any more. No, indeed, it was high time he re-earned his right to indulge.

"...You've been talking in your sleep again." it slipped stiffly from her, painted nails digging into her pant legs.

Amber eyes caught the twitch as it ran through the muscles of his bare back, rippling the darkened skin in a manner Nabooru had always been fond of—in younger, simpler years, her fingertips on the back of his neck would invoke the same reaction as her suspicions did now. It saddened her how that, too, had come to be so commonly replaced.

The King's palms settled upon the brick frame of the window, and a irritable, defeated sort of sigh was offered to the chill, rolling fogged into the night through the gap. Silence then, as she swore her voice echoed around the chamber, becoming more cringe worthy for every moment he neglected it.

Finally, the rich rumble came low to answer, and she hated how removed from him it sounded. "Have I, now..." it was not a question. "And I suppose those unconscious ramblings of mine are not to your liking."

"No. But we've had that conversation before." Nabooru offered softly, painted lips creasing into a thin grimace. "Frankly, I can't help but listen, when it has become the longest you speak to me at any given time."

Anger thundered as he flashed a golden glare her way. "I am leaving for Hyrule at dawn and you will  _not_ persuade me otherwise."

"I was never under any illusion that I could!" she hissed back, rising from her stool to flash a fearsome scowl of her own as she snatched the comb from the mirror side.

"But when you get to that damned castle, Ganondorf, you have a good long look around you, because I guarantee none of those pretentious snakes in court are going to have hair like mine. Enjoy your white brick room full of gaudy furniture. Shiver in your cold, empty sheets. Stay there, since you think so highly of their country, and don't come back until you can't stand the sight of green. Maybe then you'll learn to appreciate the desert's beauty again..."

Trailing off, the Woman's jaw would tense, her gaze losing its fire to drop mournfully to the comb in her hand as a thumb gently ran over the teeth. She could brush her hair all night, but nothing in the world could've untangled the knot in her stomach.

"...Maybe mine, too. But I guess at the moment, nothing compares to the beauty of Hyrule in your eyes."

He said nothing, his back to her still. Though Nabooru wouldn't see it, the scowl had twisted into something of pained remorse the instant her words reached rounded ear. There were parts of him that screamed out in protest, the silver tongue darting behind his teeth to correct and assuage. Ganondorf's first instinct was to tell her that she was wrong... but even he couldn't form a lie strong enough to remove the fact—the awful fact—that she was  _right._

By the time he turned from the window, she was gone, leaving only a lonely comb to take her place upon the silken covers of his bed. She did not complete her ritual. He did not feel calm.

When dawn broke, he left without saying another word, cleaving to the country he longed for. That evening, Nabooru did not brush her hair, spiteful and cursing the very thought of him in her hurt.

It was a week before she cracked, sneaking back into his room in search of her comb.

She cried herself to sleep in his bed, when she discovered it had gone with him.


	16. Silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was made to be thrown away, but he had never expected to burn.

The pale flesh he wore was not his own.

Sheik claimed an existence of blurred lines and slimly hidden cracks, drifting across the miasma of a hazed mind split in twine. His spirit was worn like a mask to hide a woman's face, brought to being by the regrets of his mother and the necessity of a child who would replace him.

He shielded his jealousy from the ever curious slivers of her consciousness, whenever it dared to breeze his too intimately. She lived and breathed yet, this crafty Princess he harboured, and he had sworn she would continue to do so under his protection.

But in borrowed mortal things came sensations he had long forgotten.

He coveted them, and privately, wished the shadows of this world would not recede. In the darkness of his soul, born of it as he seemed to be, Sheik knew he would be content to possess his charge for the rest of her days, until her bones lay brittle and forgotten upon a battle field as his once had.

He had pushed Zelda back and out of the world's reach for so long, cordoned in the sanctuary he provided. She allowed the crystalline blue of her eyes to be eclipsed by the stoic crimson, rusted and stale with the bloodstain of Hyrule's history in them. Zelda peered through the veil like a child at their window, clutching chubby fingers at the curtains to hide as they watched the strangers outside. With every day, Zelda seemed to withdraw further inward, weary of the strangers she saw. There was only one face she truly searched for among the bleak and haggard denizens of Hyrule.

Fevered searching waned to become patient watchfulness. With each doubt came a small step back. Her disappointment slowly pulled her further away from her window, until finally she had all but stopped, left to sit by it mournfully in the slim chance something may one day catch her eye.

How easy it would be for him to snatch the rope that held her curtains open, blinding her from the light and stealing away that sorrowful vision, and leave her to finally rest in the darkness.

Seven years had tempted him as her despair grew stronger, and her hopefulness had faded. Perhaps it was best for her to slip away into the realms of the dead from whence he came, beyond the reach of any who would exploit her or do harm.

How simple it seemed, after so long spent waiting for salvation, that her destruction might better deliver her from evil. There was so little of her left, flickering dim like a misplaced ember aside a roaring flame, kept alive simply by the heat of it.

But to his flame, a moth was soon drawn.

The Hero kept his distance from the Sheikah at first, furled wings covered in the dust of seven years slumber—much like the Princess, he too viewed the world from behind an adult's eyes, nothing more than an unsure child behind a curtain.

He could feel it then, as the quiet—and until then, subdued—corner of his mind began stirring once more. Zelda had awoken from her own slumber it seemed, and Sheik felt her fingers clutching tightly to the curtains once more as she spied the subject of her many dreams.

The ember glowed bright, and the Hero must've caught sight of it, for upon their second meeting, blue eyes had hardened with determination. The cocoon was unravelling as the moth spread its wings, growing bolder about the fire it chased.

A trace of silk followed his path as the Hero left such childlike things behind.

It was in the fiery mouth of a volcano that he fluttered too close, and the heat of it must've caught Zelda's ember alight. She burned brighter with every glimpse of the boy's face, and Sheik was soon rivalled by the fire he had threatened to douse.

The thread of fate had begun to entangle his flesh, pure and untainted, winding about his form as the moth circled too near.

The lithely toned muscle he bore began to soften. The mottled scars of a warrior were soon lost upon a sea of pale, untainted skin. The callouses hidden by bandaged fingers wore away and receded back into the slender, smooth digits of her hand.

When finally the moth came upon the flames to burn, they stood within the halls of the Temple of Time once again. The thread that bound him had been set alight by their collision, burning down like a wick to melt the wax away into nothing. He was nothing more than a candle to her, and he always had been.

How could the rough weave of cotton and canvas the Sheikah wore ever compare to the fine silk of a Princess, her fraying edges tended by such a dutiful moth as the Hero?

He watched them through the window of her eyes, clutching tightly at the burning curtains.

Zelda's hand was silent as it slowly drew the rope away to let them fall closed.

Sheik welcomed the darkness that came.


	17. Seed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The green land had long withered to leave a desert in its place, but still it could seed hatred into a young Prince's heart.

There is often a moment in a young boy's life that defines, in that instant, the man they will become. Subtle, fleeting; it passes by innocuously like the droll chime of a clock, bringing the last tender moment of childhood to an irreversible end, though very few recognize this transition when it occurs.

Even the Gerudo Prince did not see the change within himself, nor feel the seed of the future planted firmly in his flesh, though fate had long cultivated him to allow for its steadily nurtured growth.

Golden eyes were not yet stained with the jaundiced vision of a harsh life. His sisters did well to shelter their small sovereign, tending to their only son with care they would never know themselves. But even they could not shield him from the truth completely, clever and hungry as the boy was, testing the very boundaries that governed survival in their remote and desolate home.

The Desert was not a kind mother, firm and unforgiving as she demanded so much from her children and seemed to give so very little. But to the boy Prince, she was a mother all the same, and he had loved her as any child would. If he respected her laws, and revered her rare mercy in breathing life into his bones, surely she would reward him in time.

He did not shy from her, constantly seeking her warm embrace. He chased the dust devils in the rocky mesas with spirited laughter, wishing to dance with them. He stole chisels and brushes from the artisans to inscribe his adoration on the red earth and sandstone walls, childishly whimsical as his digits strained with the hopeless attempt to capture her beauty. He tore away from his soft bed at night to greet the deathly chill, wrapped up in his blankets and running barefoot upon her sands without fear for burns.

That is, until he found the  _stone._

It was an unpleasant shock to him when curled toes fell upon the hardened edge of it, expecting the sand to give way and finding discomfort instead. It very nearly tripped him, halting his careless play as he came to scurry and hop, clutching at his foot. Fearful of a Leever's venom, the boy first paid no mind to the object, hoping it had not been a horn and inspecting himself thoroughly—he had been warned many times not to go outside of the valley unshod.

When no danger to his health seemed apparent and, more curious still, no disturbed creature sprung forth to defend, his gaze turned to the source to question.

Dislodged from its resting place, a strange gem gleamed with the wink of coming dawn, a violet shimmer gracing its deep blue colour as it sat tussled by his footprint. Like a bird scavenging for its nest, the Prince sprang upon it eagerly and without question, the thief he was at heart compelled by the promise of wealth.

The blanket draped around his shoulders fluttered as he dropped to his knees, skinny fingers plunging swift to snatch it from the sand and hold it up to the first light of day. Crimson brows furrowed to distort the excitement so evident on his boyish features when he studied its shape—roughly cut and heavy, the potential treasure had immediately lost some of its value, he knew. A trifle though, for the brilliant blue it bore suggested sapphire; such a rarity to see a gem associated with the Zora so far West. How ironic, too, if indeed it was what it seemed… or so his hopeful heart whispered with childlike greed.

But a boy of eight summers who had yet to plunder beyond desert borders, he bitterly conceded, was not well experienced with identifying such things… the opaque nature of the stone only left him more doubtful.

His first instinct, as with any curious artifact he found half buried within the sands, was to take it to the Twinrova for appraisal. If he could not profit from the find in terms of affluence, surely he could trade it for knowledge—such bargains had become common occurrences over the last year or so. The witches had taught him a great many things he kept hidden from his sisters, who would surely scold him for recklessly venturing so far, let alone to trespass on holy grounds forbidden to any child. But, as with many of their warnings, he did not heed them closely; eager as he was for the lesson that could potentially reward his odd discovery.

Turning it about in his hands, though, he found himself second guessing the gem further as the glint of sunrise swept its surface. Squinting, the boy drew it close to his nose, curious as he caught sight of the pattern embedded within. Angular yet streamlined, seemingly forged of trapped and somehow controlled clouding, the streaks formed a symbol he recognized from the temple scrolls he had secretly perused.

The all seeing eye of the Sheikah clan stared back at him, built of hard lines that almost hid the foreign design.

An agitated sigh left him as the last hope of any worth seemed dashed—the Sheikah had never dabbled in wealth or gold, only bones and dusty old stories. It was most likely an ancient messenger, like the gossip stones scattered about the land he had heard of. He had been fooled by coloured glass, he guessed, sneeringly cursing such luck. Habit demanded confirmation, and he brought the worthless trinket to his teeth to affirm this, biting down sharply and listening for the click and scrape of its texture.

At such abuse, the stone came to life, filling his mouth with a vivid glow to send a vibration through his jaw and fingertips. A sound he could not describe filled round ears like a distant buzz as he flinched back, dropping the gem in haste and surprise. The howling winds grew dim, and the air around him suddenly beckoned calm stillness, smelling of salt and unfamiliar sweetness. A swirl of dizziness made his head feel light as he momentarily lost his bearings to the exotic sensations.

Blinking against the shock, the Prince absent-mindedly reached down for the stone, and it was then his saw the slender blades of grass. Dew covered it like a thousand tiny diamonds, winking silver against the break of day. Bursting lush with a shade of green he had only seen in dyes and emeralds, it was almost uncomfortable to behold—the vines clinging to fortress walls seemed as shadowed and sickly tendrils beside it. It was disconcerting to see the colour staining the earth beneath his knees instead of the golden sands, yet he could not tear his eyes away, fingers twitching with a want to touch and feel and hold such precious and rare a thing.

Heated palms met the sturdy ground as the blades bent and moved betwixt his fingers, blunt nails curling into the soft dirt beneath and marveling at the resistance it gave. Lips parted in silent wonder as he clutched the fresh grass, plucking it from the rich soil and reveling in the scant moisture as the dew met tanned skin. He let the dirt and smothered blades fall in clumps from his hand, watching them drop heavy in comparison to the windswept, graceful sand that usually slipped through his grasp.

On instinct, he brought his palm close to smell the sour tang left by the bruised greenery, and his eyes grew wide. This was no mirage conjured by a testing mother. A frantic sense of urgency took him as wide eyes swept the newly spawned surrounds, searching for the stone—the trickery of some crafty Sheikah left to taunt him. He found the gem to his left, but it did not hold his attention long.

Set aside it a bright bloom of purple caught him stunned, delicate and vibrant as it rose from the green to mystify. It shaped itself like a dream taken from a book, as if painted upon the air by the same illustrator's hand and made real, stolen from a far away land.

Flowers did not grow in the desert, and yet he sat beside one.

He reached for it, but hesitance stayed his hand a moment. His head turned to glimpse the small gouges he had left in the soil, and he knew by the sight of its curved petals the plant would not endure such treatment and survive. Tentative, hunger burned to know the fabled silk of it, like old proverbs often told a flower would yield. Would its beauty retract if he touched it with his rough and eager hands?

It mattered not. He held before him proof of the desert's secret bounty. The mother had rewarded a dutiful child, and now beckoned he take for his own her hidden spoils. Where the gem rested, the lifeless sands transformed into nurturing earth, the blinding glare of the harsh sun replaced by the verdant promise of nourishing green. It was a jewel of worth immeasurable, bestowing life to things once dead, as it was likely crafted to do by the Shadow folk who guarded the spirit realm so closely.

He could grow so many more flowers to replace this one, sacrificed to his curious indulgence, and carry a garden wherever he walked.

The stem was ripped without mercy from the ground. Brilliant petals were crushed and bruised within his merciless grasp as he exploited such fragile beauty to sate his hunger. The shreds of it were held close as he inhaled the sweet scent death pulled of it, far more potent than when it lived, as if the flower had exhaled the very best of itself with a final shudder.

The stone flickered and the glow began to weaken, as if the flower had been its heart. The mystic fire in it spluttered to die as the grass faded like a mirage. The bounty began to melt before his eyes, wilting to brown, receding to dry and brittle thatch until its colour matched that of the desert beneath. Within seconds, his reward had been stolen back, eclipsed by the sands as the wind returned to cover and conceal.

The Prince watched this with horror, darting forth to dig and swipe at the grains he was ready to leave behind, as if the green has simply been swallowed by quicksand. He called out to his Goddess, begged her to return such spoils—he thirsted yet, and a drip simply wouldn't do. He had need of this sweet nectar; he could not be without it now that he had known such a taste.

Return to him what he had earned, what his sisters suffered without, now that he knew it had been buried beneath their feet all along. How cruel, how spiteful was she to her favoured son to tempt and tease him so.

How could he love a mother so unkind as to ignore her child's pain, his dreams, his hunger and thirst? Her dust devils intended to taunt, not to dance. The beauty he had scrawled upon the walls of his home was ugly and unrefined, making of him a fine and accurate artist. The chill at night which cooled the sands lured him out to be lost within her vast apathy; wandering with no way point should she whip up the winds to blind, or else settling in the lungs to sicken and strike dead.

He would denounce her, if she would rebuff him, and tear apart her sands in search of fabled green.

The Goddess did not heed his warning. The pattern had left the stone to leave it dull and spent, as dead as the sand slipping through his fingers that moments ago held the form of life.

He hurled the stone away as anger bloomed, cursing the rising sun as the heat met his cheeks with a callous bite and turning his back on it to head for home.

The flower had wilted.

But the seed within the boy sprouted a blackened leaf in its place, and from there, a bitter man would grow.

 


	18. Pale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hardships of the desert were not the only things Hylian nobility would have whitewashed.

There were times she loathed her ambassadorial role among Hylian nobility.

Nabooru knew the importance of peace and good relations, having been raised upon the strains of mistrust and the bloodied remnants of war. She had watched sisters be born, and watched their mothers fade. She had heard the awful sound of babes wailing in the night, nursed by an aunt who had lost their own child. She knew the pallid colour of their dying mothers, left weakened by labour, starved of water and nutrients to slip away in the night. She knew the dry, spine cracking cough of the sick and fevered, and the helplessness of knowing they did not possess sufficient medical supplies to relieve it.

A scratch in battle was as fatal a wound as any, were infection to sink its teeth and poison the blood.

Loathe as she was to admit it within her own stubbornness, her caring heart whispered of the necessity of trade and union. The Lone Wolf did not take kindly to being informed her people, independent and fierce as they were, required Hylian aid.

But the truth of it was to be found within fortress walls, bare and naked to her eye though they buried it well enough in the sands, obscuring the fact from themselves since the war.

Not a day had broken since without blood still shed, she supposed, as if the cuts left by the enemy wept with shame for their draw.

The Gerudo King had been bitterly steadfast in his denial, fuelling hers as well, and both leaders had spat upon the letters sent by Royal scribes at first. He had long blinded himself to their losses, when the smoke of civil war had cleared. Something in him had broken the day peace had been declared, and sometimes, Nabooru still wondered of it—it was almost as if he chased victory still, robbed of it as the other fiefdoms would default.

The Gerudo may have been the ones known as thieves, but it seemed something of their pride had been stolen in the wake of Hylian diplomacy, and the fight to regain it was one she and Ganondorf had held to with utter conviction. But, over the years, it had become painfully clear to her—suffering in sheer defiance of the crown was a suicidal tact, and it was her people that would reap the punishment of their leaders' well-intentioned tenacity.

Nabooru had been the one to swallow the acid on her tongue first, gently urging the first steps toward progress. The Lone Wolf had weathered many reprisals from the Lone Male, but when the hellfire in his eyes had calmed and she found herself able to speak over his hatred, Ganondorf had grudgingly complied.

The two leaders now held silence, as if mourning the state of affairs, unable to look one another in the eye as they found themselves caged by whitewashed brick instead of the sandy walls they called home. Biding their time and sucking air thick with tension and shame through their noses, Ganondorf sat upon the edge of her bed, head lowered and heavy hands between his knees. He watched his Second resentfully, as if it would never have come to this without her decisions, though privately he was thankful she had shouldered such a burden in his place.

From her place in front of a large and gaudy vanity, Nabooru tried her best to ignore him, fussing over her left earring from where it had gotten tangled with her hair. Drawing her fingers away, one final flick of her wrist freed it from the wayward lock, and she grimaced to her reflection for the trouble.

"We're going to be late, Nabooru." she heard him muse behind her, unnerved by how weary he sounded when she knew all too well the thunder of which his voice was capable.

Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, and knowing full well he would only stall in her place should she hasten, the Gerudo offered a dismissive scoff. "No, we're not. Just be patient... I'm almost ready."

Her gaze flicked to the image of him in the mirror and caught the disapproving frown he sent her way, and her heart cracked some to note the fire in his own eyes had dimmed some.

With a long sigh, he shook his head, his voice strained as if a great weight were upon it. "You're not even dressed." His eyes left the mirror as her shifted through glass to meet them.

"I'm as dressed as I  _need_  to be." she spat defiantly, hissing like a cat in water to slam her hand against the wood and glare. "This is the garb of my station, and those licentious bastards will find  _no issue_  with it besides the envy of their  _fat_  wives, as  _is to be expected_."

Her teeth wrapped venomously to bite around each word, and though Ganondorf knew she would not conform to Hylian custom, he was also keenly aware of what punishment a brazen woman could incur among this culture. It was one matter to walk the streets of Castle Town with such flesh exposed, for a Gerudo could handle herself well enough to stave off physical assault. But amongst nobility—to stroll through the Hyrulean court with bust, belly and back on show—was to invite political turmoil for which there would be no defence.

Much as it pained him, he drew his hands to the sides of his face, rubbing temples as he willed the words to come.

"You were the one who warned me to be... considerate of myself for the sake of souring their opinions of us further." he ground out slowly, the barest hint of temper prickling his tongue, though his patience came more easily with her. "I have tailored my attire to be more suited to these affairs, Nabooru, and you will be  _expected_  do the same."

"I'm not wearing a dress,  _Ganondorf_." she scowled, turning her head to leer bitterly over her shoulder. She bristled with the want to argue, she could feel the heat rising in her heart to scream and fight the matter.

But as her King stared her down, something of a rare pathos dulling his eyes from gold to a jaundiced, beaten down yellow, the Lone Wolf softened some to concede. She knew as well as he did what consequences something as simple as an outfit could have among the shallow and the pompous, and how crucial this impression was when set against the rest of their future dealings.

They were both sorry for it, but had only themselves to blame if things went further awry.

This was not about them. This was about their sisters, withering away in the desert sands while they would see silver platters sprawled before them in tonight's feast.

Glancing down at the ornate rug beneath her slippered feet, Nabooru's nails dug into the wood of the vanity. "...I will wear the shawl Aveil packed for me. After all, it will be cold tonight and... and you know how I hate the chill..." she managed, letting it linger between them as a broken whisper.

Her King returned but a sombre nod, saying nothing more on the subject as his attention strayed to the door. She knew he just wanted to have the whole ordeal over with, and she too would rejoice when finally they stood upon sand again, hopefully with better things to come.

Reticent as she turned to finish herself, reaching for the shimmer her eyes needed to sparkle that night, Nabooru's hand paused beside the cosmetics left for her usage by handmaidens. She stared at the black lacquer of the powder box, her fingers twitching with bitter curiosity as she lifted the lid. She said nothing when the creamy white of its contents was revealed to her, halted by the sight though unsurprised to find it there, if she were honest.

A tremble took her arm and the strength seemed to leave her all at once, lid carelessly clattering to the floor as her palms sought steady wood. The creak of the bed behind her soon led to footsteps, his shadow crawling over her shoulder as Ganondorf, too, took baited pause.

Nabooru did not watch his hand take to the powder box to snatch it up and hurl it clear across the room. She did not hear it shatter against a wall, nor feel the dust of it settling all around them to the loud string of native cursing—the thunder had returned to him.

She would appear in court bare faced, without a shawl, and he did not bow to another King when the time came. Whispers of savagery and disrespect echoed low in the dining hall over dinner, from pale lips to pointed ears. The Gerudo held their tongues despite them, challenging all in company to battle with golden glares.

Sometimes, the most potent insults needn't be uttered at all.

 


	19. Drums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All but the Sheikah were blind to the dead, but he could hear the demon drums stirring deep below.

The Sheikah were a devoted people, set in their ways and steadfast to the tasks they were born to.

It had always been enough in her youth, passionate and skilled a warrior had her father raised her to be—the kiss of a blade was far more important than that of a boy, and the stealth of her feet more pressing then what boots adorned them. Impa did not question the war when it came, bred for it as she was to defend and fight, be it demons or men. Her brothers had fallen in the battle, but where once their broken bodies lay scattered about the cinders of their homes, she would stoically rebuild and await the next fight.

She had not allowed herself to feel burdened by her survival and loss, left standing alone when the smoke had cleared to carry the Sheikah name. Brick by brick, born of the sweat of her brow and the strength of her back, the last of the Shadow folk had seen Kakariko forged anew. Those with hearts left heavy and broken from the war began to settle there in time, drifting with sorrow to be near their fallen, laid to rest in the graveyard.

Impa found she pitied them, empathetic to their pains, with only memories left to keep them company where once people stood. She had never been without the spirits of her kin, for her eyes saw the truth that they stood beside her still, ever watchful of the legacy she carried. They flocked to her, questions desperately burning in their souls, asking her to liaise with their dead and hopeful of one last whisper.

It was the Hylian grief she witnessed that began to crack the brimming dam of her own emotion, and soon enough, the dead spoke from her lips.

Taboo though it was, the woman's heart was kind, and her own loss felt somehow eased for it and easier to tuck away, when such a simple thing brought comfort to those whose pain could not be caged like hers. Her mercy was deemed miracle by the Hylian ears that heard lost voices leave her lips, and soon rumour of it spread like wildfire across the plains, gathering people from near and far. She could turn no broken heart away from her door, though she often held the conviction she would.

From all over Hyrule, those mourning would cleave to Kakariko in search of the Sheikah, the very last Messenger of the Dead.

Gorons, superstitious as they were, came rolling down their mountain to learn the previous Patriarch's secret dance, hoping to aid the growth of their special crop. Zoras swam upriver and paced up crumbling steps to grow dry in the heat of the sun, asking their ancestors to protect their ailing Queen. A young Deku scrub had once made a seven day journey, slowly sneaking through the nights and hiding in plain view during the day, simply to ask how much his father charged for seeds.

When finally the Impa locked her door to the outside world, weary and spent for the selfishness she often witnessed, she resolved never to break the laws of her people again. The dead would remain silent, and the living learn their lessons as experience saw fit to teach them.

But of all the glossed eyes and sad tales to arrive in Kakariko, searching for answers and truth, not once had a Gerudo appeared.

Impa spied the blaze of crimson from her window, half way across town as the young thief stood beside the well with their back to her. She was used to strangers breezing through her town, she supposed, but not without a knock at her door—least of all a stranger from so far in the West. The Sheikah watched them a while, tracing the child's outline with curiosity as copper skin drank up what little sun the overcast day provided. They did not move from their spot, silently watching the slow turn of the windmill's blades and shifting their weight idly from foot to foot.

There was a harsh sound like a whip cracking upon the breeze, and suddenly she stood before them, drawing a flinch for the shock as golden eyes grew wide. Unlike so many other children that would shriek and stumble back, this slim show of surprise suggested she had merely caught the Gerudo off guard—this child was accustomed to magic such as this, and recovering, their wry smirk soon confirmed her suspicion.

This  _boy_ , she noted, as she studied his features, mixed as they were between child and man. She had never seen Gerudo men, only overhearing the rumours about lone boys born to the desert tribe, though clearly, it was no myth that had entered her town. This blooming man, lithe and lean with the toned musculature of a fresh teenager, shorter than he ought to be for the age she saw in his face; her fabled eyes could look right down into the bottom of him, and there she saw mischief and cunning. Impa could guess she may be no more than six or seven years his senior, but crossing her arms, the Sheikah would tilt her head to address him as such.

"What business have you in Kakariko, boy?" she asked coldly, stoic and scrutinising, her crimson gaze tracing the exotic clothes he wore.

The smirk wavered only slightly, any offence taken from her tone hidden marvellously with a roll of his shoulders. "I'm a  _king,_ actually, but all the way up here in this...  _quaint hamlet_ of yours, I suppose you wouldn't be very informed on current affairs."

His accent drawled thick and cocky, blunt and unaccustomed to forming Hylian syllables, though he seemed familiar enough with the language—she found it somewhat obnoxious, though she couldn't deny he had piqued her curiosity.

"I had heard there was one last Sheikah wandering around up here," the apparent King continued, waving a dismissive hand at her and beginning to walk around her, as if she was the one to be studied, "I'm guessing that'd be you."

Impa fought the aggravated twitch that threatened to take her left eye, lightly drumming her fingers upon her arm. "...You would be correct." she offered patiently, biting back on her annoyance as she watched him trail a hand across stone brick, peering into the well water.

He paused to flash a grin at her, cheeky though tailored with charm as he offered a golden wink. "I'm impressed. I thought you'd be some old doddery crone, but you're actually not bad to look at."

Not turning back to face her after that, the Thief would sit himself on the edge of it, letting his hand splash about in the water with mild amusement. Unseen, he cocked a brow, thoughtfully musing to himself and watching the ripples he made with odd fascination. "In fact, you're probably the most interesting thing this sleepy old town has to offer thus far... until I find what I came for, that is."

Her curiosity dimmed as her visage twisted into an authoritative scowl, posture shifting into one of belligerence—this child, king or not, was still a guest in her home. His trespass on her lands had already sent him adrift in the sheltered harbour of her patience, and his entitled attitude did nothing to alleviate that.

Especially when such words came from the tongue of a careless thief, familiar with magic, when Impa knew well of the dangers buried underfoot. There was much darkness lurking in the Shadows of Kakariko, tucked away and silent between the houses, simply waiting to be disturbed from their slumbers...

No, she did not care for his want to poke around  _at all_.

"If you wish to speak to the dead, you'll find them silent as the grave. If you come in search of gold, you will find only bones. Now I will ask you only once more..." she hissed with a squint, returning a grimace to his coy grin and hardening her features with warning. "What business have you here, _boy_?"

"...That's not what the spirits say." he returned, a devilish and knowing smirk lining his lips when next her looked at her.

Taken aback, Impa stared at him with disbelief, fearful now of what he'd heard—somewhere in the back of her mind, a careful hope began to bloom. Familiar and drawing up an old ache, she suddenly saw in him the ghosts of her fallen, stirred by his revelation. Only the Sheikah could hear the whispers of the dead... surely, the Thief was dishonest, as all who come to steal should be.

Her arms fell to her sides and she found herself advancing quickly, bandaged fingers shooting out to scruff the cotton cowl that lay draped upon his shoulders. The Gerudo was heaved from the stone brick of the well, dragged to his feet before her as the Sheikah's nose brushed his, indignation face to face with fury.

"Do not lie to me, Thief! Only the eyes of truth can know of such things!" she spat, a murderous glint in her crimson eyes as the Gerudo struggled some in her grasp, scowling back. "I and I alone know the secrets of this place, and I will guard them to my dying breath, do you understand me? You will find nothing of this place unless I see fit to show you!"

Raw upon his features, it was clear the Gerudo was not used to being handled in such a way, though as her words bit into his rounded ears, he found his own flash of temper doused by the taste of acid on his tongue. Settling a rough hand on her wrist, the young King would lower his tone to an acerbic whisper, eyeing her with conviction.

"If you can see the truth, then it's a pity your ears aren't as keen. I can hear the drums from half way across the field... it's like a heartbeat. I heard your clan grow fiercer in their warnings for every step up those stairs I took. I can hear the beasts wailing and tearing at the lost souls. The foolish Hylians who live here have no idea what lies buried with their dead... but you and I do."

With a force she had not expected him capable, her hand was roughly torn away from his collar, thrown aside as he took a step back. The two would stare each other down for a good moment or so, and as she saw a dark flicker of pain in those golden eyes, Impa felt her anger fade. He was not perturbed by the demons, though she knew he was sincere. He too had known loss, the grief ebbing inside of him like a tide risen with their scuffle, and though he could hear them just as she could, now she saw him to be blind.

Inclining her head, the Sheikah would sigh, her gaze tracing the grass between them. "... You've come for the eye, haven't you? To lend faces to the things you hear..."

Resentful of how quickly the woman had figured him out, the Gerudo would scoff and turn back to the well, frowning down at the pristine water. "I can cross the river of sand and I can follow the laughter of the Guide... but so too can my sisters. A King should see and hear the spirits, for he is divine.  _I_ am holy, and I will not be fooled by the mirages again... They're just lies and sand."

His voice softened at the end, anguish seeping into his tone though he tried to hide it, and Impa could only guess what the mirages were—what awful spectres would haunt a child so far that he would journey here to be rid of them?

But like so many that came to her, they all knew the answers beforehand, simply seeking to have it confirmed by forces greater than themselves.

In that moment, reminded of her kin, she gave the boy the same care and advice she would a younger brother, indulging in the odd connection she felt to him.

She softened, stepping forward to place a gentle hand upon the Thief's shoulder, and offered her last service. "If you know them to be lies, then you already see the truth, boy. They will only haunt you insofar as you dwell on the pains they feed upon, and hold them within you. If you fear you are not enough, and these mirages convince you so, then strive to become more of yourself so these beasts have nothing left to prey upon. You are the one in control."

The young King said nothing as he stared into the well, fists balled tight at his sides as her words drifted on the breeze around him. Sensing there was little more to be said, the Sheikah would let her hand and brief comfort fall away to leave him there, turning to head for her home.

And as the Gerudo stood there in silence, peering into the darkness, he knew that she was right. He was the King of his desert, and he would not be ruled by its phantoms—he was Goddess sent, and his will would be as strong as hers. He listened to the beating drums, overwhelming and strong, and respect bloomed for the stoic Sheikah who could live with such a foreboding sound.

One day, he resolved to command its rhythm, and perhaps then she too would know him as a King.

 


	20. Brontide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The low rumbling of distant thunder stirred a deep feeling of loss in her bones.

The winds had been kinder to them, since he left.

The Gerudo King had taken off east in such haste, it was hard to place one’s finger on what might have been going through his mind of late. After months locked away and out of sight, quill in hand and scrolls unfurled, buried in maps and a weathered atlas of foreign fields, it was no longer strange for the Gerudo to see little of the lone male.

Nabooru and her sisters had grown used to his absence, and though many had mourned the change, life simply carried on without him. Time didn’t stop, nor did the sunburnt earth split asunder; the sun rose to the day and the moon at night. Chaos did not unfold without Ganondorf’s hand to steady it, and the beastly apparitions haunting the wasteland did not come tumbling into their children’s rooms. The illusion of his reverence seemed to blow away just as easily as any other desert born mirage might after that, old superstitions reduced to just that.

Whether he paced the grounds of the fortress to watch over them with sharp golden eyes, or stowed away in the deepest depths of the Spirit Temple, the sandstorms still raged on. The ferocity they carried were no better nor any worse than before.

Where once many daughters flocked about his large boots, clamouring for the King’s approval—simply a smile would do—they shied away from the darkness of his glare now to hide behind their mother’s legs. His large hand upon a girl’s hair to ruffle did not bring blessings with it, or necessitate that one would become an elite over another.

Ganondorf retreated, becoming more of a stranger to them everyday, and Nabooru watched this all with relative silence. Nothing changed, save perhaps for the bitterness she felt filling the absence he had left in her. For the longest time, she was unsure what that absence was—she still held the memories of younger days spent at his side. She still held his respect, though he had long stopped listening to her advice. She had lost nothing of her position or her influence, dedicated to the lives that followed them to guide. He hadn’t truly taken anything from her that she could tell or name, though the Gerudo were thieves at heart— _something_ had been stolen in all of this.

By and by, she came to think he had taken her hope, stealing away with it to a foreign land.

But as Ganondorf’s second stood fast upon the sand-swept stone of the fortress, a gentle breeze caressing her face for the first time in a small eternity, she knew that was a lie. Amber eyes held to the east, watching the dark clouds gather to a head, heart sinking low in her stomach for the crimes they reflected; the darkness only he could manifest.  
  
Thunder rolled low in the distance, like the roar of a beast, to gather up a storm of fury unlike anything her desert had seen.  
  
The desert breathed easily, as if a great burden of guilt had been lifted from the chest of the Goddess. Hope shone down upon them in bright rays, whispering of better things as the sands grew gentler by the day.

Her tribe flourished without him, as if he was never there at all. She had suffered to have him gone, she had missed him most of all, and it was her hope alone he had crushed—not for the Gerudo, but for himself. He had not stolen from her, but Nabooru had lost something all the same.

She had lost  _him._

The winds were kinder, now that he had gone… and she thought then, that perhaps those gales had blown at his back alone, pushing him East. He had been expelled from the sands, rejected by them, as if the Great Mother had seen the darkness in his heart, protecting her daughters from a son that did not belong.

She turned away from the dark clouds upon the horizon. She took heed of the thunder. She sent a prayer to the sky, and saddled a horse to cross the sands.

When she reached the steps of the Spirit Temple, she did so boldly and without fear of the taboos placed upon that hallowed ground. Only a King was welcomed here, so the scriptures told, save for the times when the tribe found themselves bereft of one.

Nabooru felt she no longer had a King to enter before her.

No protest came of the Spirits.


	21. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a difficult task, bearing a history that had been all but erased from the world around him.

 

 

It was a difficult task, bearing a history that had been all but erased from the world around him. He held onto so many memories that, to any other, now sounded no more than distant dreams. 

His mind wandered often, drifting back and forth between the Hyrule he had left behind, and the one in which he now stood. It was only a matter of time before his body, too, began to wander with them.

Sometimes he would leave in the dead of night, letting the lush grass of the fields—unburdened by the patches of brown and dead soil as they could’ve been—crunch softly beneath his boots. Steely blue eyes would trace the stars above in question, ever paranoid of what he now knew lay beyond them, and whether  _They_  may ever descend upon this world. He thought of the many Gods watching him from the Heavens, too, and pushed back the questions he had for them.

As the moon crept high, small and bright, thankful as he was it would stay there peacefully, Link found a path worn in the grass. He had travelled it so many times he scarcely noticed it beneath him, drawing him away from the ranch he now called home.

Silent as a shadow creeping slowly across the land, he fancied himself Poe-like, denied rest and left to linger in search of something long lost. He wondered, as his steps began to mirror the treeline of the forests he grew up in, if he might meet a fate much the same were he not to turn back at dawn, as he always did.

As he had grown, as his mind had changed and his body filled out with the toned muscle he once wore, the memory of his time spent among the Kokiri blurred to become faint. Calloused fingers brushed the bark of trees as he passed them, searching for that fleeting spark, a marking, any hint to track and trace the fact he once lived here. The hidden trails he had once known so clearly, so intimately, had faded over time and perhaps his own neglect. He was a stranger here, now, and he did not belong.

He had come too far, he knew, as the spores of the woodland thickened the air with magic and a silent warning.

Only fairy folk could could find the grove he had once thought he would never leave; only children, pure of heart, could stumble upon the Kokiri as they played and hear the distant whistle of the flute.

Pointed ears twitched within the silence, knowing only the rustle of the leaves. His gaze wandered the woods ahead of him, darkened by the thick shade of its canopy. He stood caught by the sliver of moonlight, illuminated, and felt the eyes of the forest watching him. 

But here, an adult was blind, and he knew he would never see his old home again. Now, only the Lost Woods awaited him, consuming all the spaces between the trees and beckoning him onward, hungry for a stranger’s flesh.

Peering up through blonde bangs, the young man could see still the way point of the stars, pleading with him to turn back and never return to this place. Where once played children he held as dear as family, now they hid away behind the shadows, guarded by monsters. There was nothing left for him here, now that he was a man.

Like so many memories locked away in his head, the boy he had been—even in this world and time—was no more than a fading dream.

A sigh left him, weary and small.

Another dawn broke bruised and bloodied across the sky, accompanied yet again by the dutiful silhouette of a Hero forgotten as he trudged back across the field.

 

There were some things that he could never have changed, no matter which of Time’s roads he chose.


	22. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nabooru had never thought she'd regret shedding her blood for the King.

Only three times in her life had Nabooru shed her blood for the King.  
  
The first, she recalled, was when they were both so young and foolish that even the daily trials of desert life could not have convinced them of their mortality. Children, in truth, grinning wild and clashing together with blades sharper than they cared to remember. Sweat would slick crimson hair to his brow, and she would relish every blow she landed—he welcomed them with a mixture of shock and excitement that had always stirred pride in her.   
  
She couldn’t best him, but she had never truly lost to him either. Their sparring was as much a game as a necessity of the lives they would lead, and to keep up with the Holy Son was to Nabooru the best sign that her life would be long and full of glory.

It was the only time in her life when Ganondorf had needed to look up at her, but for that insult, she supposed, he had been the first to draw blood. She still carried the clean white streak on her arm—these days covered up by glove—where his blade had found her flesh one fateful day in a snap response as she teased his height during a match. A childish distraction, but one that had cost her for upsetting him.

She remembered how the boy had stopped after he had lashed out, paling for the sight of her blood and realising his mistake. How he had dropped to his knees and spouted his apologies, how he had panicked and fretted for his slip. How guilty he looked. How scared; how he had spent the next week more attentive than was befitting his rank, simply for fears she would not talk to him again.

The first person he had ever harmed was a dear friend. It was something she’d always laughed at in younger days, but now, the memory simply brought her sadness.

 

The second time was not his fault, but her own.

It wasn’t more than a few years after the first, but long enough that they had grown into adulthood by Gerudo standards, and thus taken on harder roles. Their friendship had blossomed into both intimacy and sporting rivalry, dancing around custom and responsibilities to find every excuse to be near the other. Just the opportunity of having their golden gazes meet over a crowded room was enough to keep them going until the next touch, every whispered word precious, every kiss stolen far from the sight of Twinrova’s disapproving glare.

It was a time in their lives when there was no doubt that they would do anything to see the other smile, even for a moment, in a harsh and unforgiving world. No longer did they think themselves fireproof or beyond death, but rather were more keenly aware than ever of the fact that those they cared for could be gone in the blink of an eye. Something that drove them both to savour their time together, such that the cool nights when they could be entangled in each other’s arms bordered on sacred.

Their duties often pulled them apart, but none threatened to do so more than the arrow of a Hylian Lord.

He had begged her to come with him to the green country of Hyrule, to sit in the Royal court as his second, and be recognised as such. They rode across the fields and laughed at the thought of those stuffy old men, too long in their power, reeling at the sight of tanned midriff and retching to know it carried such authority in political matters. She had watched his eyes light up for the sight of that grand white castle, and she had smiled at the way he seemed entranced by the fields—she had thought it akin to childlike wonderment at the time. The fires of war had died, and the land had begun to heal. Nabooru had thought it a beautiful thing as well.

She hadn’t understood what the noble feared so greatly of her King, such that an assassination would be pined for so greatly. She had been naïve to the opinions of the Hylians who saw the way Ganondorf’s eyes lit up, and thought it envy and danger—a thief spying a dangerous new treasure to take. She had hoped such prejudice had passed when these lands were unified; she had hoped that they would welcome the Gerudo envoy with relief and understanding.

She hadn’t hesitated, when spying the archer upon a castle parapet, to move in the way of the arrow intended for Ganondorf’s heart. He carried the hopes of their people’s future— _her future—_ and for that, she gave her blood again. That accursed arrow had stuck fast into her shoulder, but with the Goddess’ blessing, she lived.

It pained her to think that, in some way, the man she loved had still died that day. Sometimes, she wonders if he was always meant to, and if in trying to save him, it was that very act that saw him damned.

She wonders, too, if the archer had seen the truth long before anyone else when he caught that glimmer in Ganondorf’s eye, or whether it was merely prejudice as she’d once believed.

 

These are the things Nabooru thinks of as she bleeds for the third, and final, time.

Leaning heavily against his desk, feverish and exhausted, her gaze still traces over the atlas he has left unfurled there. One hand holds her stomach—pain and nausea emanating from the spot as her heart sinks to join the sensations—and carefully notes each marking his quill has left. Each one is like a tick to mark her recent suspicions. Every inky scrawl reminds her of an act of coldness he has habit of leaving her with now.

They remind her of the fact that his smile has been replaced by smirks, and that his eyes no longer light up with passion, but rather darken with anger. Their sacred unions are no longer so, made cheap and shared with other women—this she has known for some time, but for her heart, seen fit to ignore. He gives shallow comfort to that by excusing himself as the only male, and to some extent, she understands. Her sisters deserve daughters, as well, with blood as strong as his bearing greater chances of survival among the sands.

The jagged marks that map the southern forests tell her his long forays into Hyrule—diplomatic, he assured her—are cloaked with lies. She can guess that the ink staining the Zora’s Domain do not reflect the promised plans of an aqueduct. Death Mountain sports more of the same, hinting correlation to the food shortage she has heard of, whispered as it has been on the wind. This is the penmanship of a man at war, and she has known him long enough to understand this, for she has read many notes from him in the past—secret letters penned with a loving hand—and here, she sees it warped by malice.

She regrets the haste with which she burst into his chambers this night, but his absence is painfully short lived as she hears his steps behind her. His voice is harsh when he find her there uninvited, panicked when he realises what she’s seen. Angry as he demands she leave.

But he is silent when she turns to oblige him, the front of her pants stained crimson with the loss of his child.

Nabooru is silent also as she slips past him, stone faced, and ignoring her inner turmoil and physical discomfort. She is glad that her daughter will not meet this man, and will not know what he has done—what he plans to do. What her mother could never shield her from. The monster that grew to fill his place.

 

Perhaps their child will find his spirit as she slips into the Holy Mother’s care, for it seems apparent Ganondorf died long ago.


End file.
